Archive of Our Own ^beta

Alastor x Angel Dust (RadioDust) Mpreg

———

The peaceful stillness of the morning was abruptly shattered by the crackling hum of an old radio clock. Moments later, it sprang to life, filling the room with the vintage melody of If I Had a Talking Picture of You, a tune straight from the 1920s.

As part of their living arrangement since their relationship began, Angel had needed an alarm clock—though Alastor had outright refused to let him use his cellphone for the task. “That infernal device is nothing but a mind-control tool crafted by Vox to brainwash all of Hell,” Alastor had declared with his usual unsettling certainty. It sounded completely unhinged, but, considering Alastor’s history, Angel wasn’t entirely sure he was wrong.

And after breaking free from Valentino’s contract, Angel was more than happy to keep his distance from anything tied to the Vees.

A groan escaped the spider demon as the music slowly dragged him into consciousness. He didn’t want to wake up—not yet. All he wanted was to stay curled up in bed, nestled against Alastor with Fat Nuggets snoozing nearby.

But his body had other plans.

A sharp churn twisted in his stomach, and Angel grimaced. Probably just another consequence of Alastor’s ridiculously spicy cooking.

With a sigh, he carefully slid out of bed, making sure not to disturb Alastor—who remained seemingly dead to the world—or Fat Nuggets, who was snuggled up at the foot of the mattress.

Angel shuffled into the bathroom, rubbing the last remnants of sleep from his eyes. The floor was cool beneath his feet, a small comfort as he went about his usual morning routine.

After relieving himself, he moved to the sink, reaching for his toothbrush and the toothpaste.

Yawning, he started brushing, but the moment the minty foam hit his tongue, his tongue winced and stomach twisted. A wave of nausea rolled through him, sudden and violent. He gagged, pausing mid-brush as his body protested.

“Ugh… What the hell?” he muttered, staring at himself in the mirror. Sure, Angel didn’t like the taste of mint but it was used in practically everything oral hygiene product he could buy, but he never had such reaction.

Or was it the mint flavor?

Maybe he really shouldn’t have let Alastor cook last night.

Steeling himself, he tried again. The second the bristles scraped his teeth, the sickly-sweet burn of mint coated his mouth, and his stomach lurched. His entire body rebelled.

Angel barely made it to the toilet before he was heaving, bile rising as his stomach forcefully emptied itself.

A familiar presence slithered up the wall, stretching across the dimly lit bathroom. Alastor’s Shadow loomed near, its shape flickering between sharp, exaggerated angles and something softer, something almost… concerned.

A tendril-like appendage curled around Angel’s back, a poor imitation of a comforting touch. The Shadow didn’t speak—it never did—but the way it hovered close, pressing against his shoulder, was an unmistakable gesture of care.

Angel groaned, spitting out the last remnants of sickness. “Great,” he rasped. “Even your creepy-ass Shadow knows I’m havin’ a bad time.”

The darkness quivered slightly, an unspoken acknowledgment.

Angel wiped his mouth, his body still trembling. He wasn’t sure what was worse—the vomiting or the fact that Alastor’s unsettling little pet was acting like it actually gave a damn.

A sudden knock against the bathroom door made Angel flinch.

“My dear, I do hope you’re not dying in there,” Alastor’s voice lilted through the wood, far too cheerful for someone who’d just heard their partner retching. “Or if you are, do be considerate and let me know—I’d hate to miss such an event!”

Angel groaned, resting his forehead against the cool porcelain of the toilet. “Fuck off, Al… unless you’re plannin’ to put me outta my misery.”

The door creaked open without invitation, and Alastor stepped inside, Fat Nuggets trotting at his feet. The little pig let out a distressed squeak, waddling over and nudging Angel’s leg with his snout.

Alastor, on the other hand, looked completely unbothered. He tilted his head, sharp eyes scanning Angel’s miserable form, then flicked his gaze to his shadow, which was still lingering nearby. “Oh dear, my Shadow’s taken to doting on you? You must be in dreadful shape.”

Angel glared weakly at him. “Yeah, well, it’s doin’ a better job than you.”

Alastor grinned, crouching beside him with unsettling ease. “Now, now, let’s not be unfair. I did come to check on you! Which is more than I can say for some partners—why, I once knew a fellow who left his sick lover for dead just to avoid catching the flu!” He laughed, clearly entertained by the memory.

Angel made a face and shoved him away weakly. “That’s real romantic, babe. Really.”

Alastor merely chuckled, then reached out and brushed Angel’s sweat-dampened bangs aside with a surprising gentleness. “Do tell, my dear, was this just an unfortunate culinary disagreement? Or should I start preparing your eulogy?”

Angel groaned, sitting back against the wall and rubbing his face. “I dunno. Brushed my teeth, gagged, then bam—puked my guts out. Pretty sure it was that minty crap ya keep buyin’.”

Alastor hummed, tapping his chin. “Interesting… I don’t believe you’ve had such a reaction before.” His grin widened. “Perhaps you’re developing an aversion to mint! How tragic—what ever shall we do?”

Angel rolled his eyes. “I dunno, maybe stop buyin’ it?”

Fat Nuggets squeaked in agreement, climbing onto Angel’s lap as if trying to comfort him.

Alastor, however, seemed thoughtful now, eyes flickering with some unreadable emotion. “Well,” he finally said, voice airy, “perhaps it’s not a ‘eulogy’ I need to be writing for…but rather the opposite.”

Angel furrowed his brows. “The hell’s that supposed to mean?”

Alastor just grinned wider, but for once, he didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, Alastor leaned in slightly, his grin sharp yet oddly amused. “Oh, I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise,” he purred, eyes twinkling with something almost conspiratorial. “It’s far more entertaining to watch you figure it out yourself.”

Angel narrowed his eyes. “Al… I swear, if you’re screwin’ with me right now—”

“Moi?” Alastor placed a hand over his chest in mock offense. “Now Ma Belle Araignée, you wound me! Why, I am merely suggesting that this little morning spectacle of yours might not be a random occurrence.”

Angel groaned and slumped back against the wall, rubbing his temples. “So what? I caught some weird Hell bug?”

Alastor hummed, tilting his head. “Mmm… something’s certainly changing in that peculiar little body of yours.” He gestured vaguely toward Angel’s stomach, his grin never faltering. “A transformation of sorts! Oh, what a delightful mystery!”

Angel’s brow twitched. “Okay, see, this is why no one trusts you—ya talk in fuckin’ riddles.”

Alastor merely laughed, clearly enjoying himself. “And yet, you love me anyway.”

Angel scowled, still feeling nauseous and too exhausted to deal with Alastor’s cryptic nonsense. “If I find out you do know what’s wrong with me and you’re just dicking around, I’m gonna strangle ya.”

Alastor’s shadow flickered at that, the tendrils curling in amusement. “Oh, I assure you, my dear, I wouldn’t dream of keeping such important information from you.” He leaned in again, his voice dropping to something silky and teasing. “Not for too long, at least.”

Angel groaned, dramatically throwing his head back. “I hate you.”

Alastor chuckled, standing up and offering his hand. “Oh, darling, you say that now, but soon enough, you’ll be thanking me.”

Angel stared at him, suspicious. “...The fuck does that mean?”

Alastor’s grin widened, and instead of answering, he simply helped Angel to his feet, dusting him off as though he were fragile. “Come, come! You should eat something. You’ll need your strength!”

Angel swatted his hands away. “For what? Dealin’ with you?”

Alastor chuckled. “Oh, for so much more than that, my dear.” His eyes gleamed, his voice dripping with far too much amusement. “Why, I have the distinct feeling that everything is about to change.”

Alastor hummed to himself as he guided Angel toward the sink, ever the picture of smug amusement. Despite Angel’s grumbling, he allowed his partner to fuss over him—Alastor straightened his rumpled nightshirt, smoothed down his tangled fur, and even ran his fingers through his messy hair in a way that was both irritating and oddly comforting.

Fat Nuggets trailed after them, squeaking in concern as Angel begrudgingly rinsed his mouth out. The taste of bile and mint lingered, making his stomach twist again, but at least he wasn’t actively heaving anymore.

“There we are,” Alastor cooed, handing him a towel with exaggerated care. “All freshened up and ready for the day! Well, aside from your usual face-painting ritual, of course.”

Angel shot him a glare over the towel. “It’s called makeup, asshole.”

Alastor waved a dismissive hand. “Yes, yes, your sacred artistry—how dreadfully time-consuming. But don’t fret, my dear, I’ll keep you entertained while you prepare.”

As if on cue, the radio—still softly playing in the background—fizzled for a moment before switching to another song. The smooth, vintage melody of Rock-a-Bye Baby started drifting through the air, its lullaby-like tune oddly eerie in the quiet room.

Angel froze, his ears twitching at the sound. He turned to Alastor, who was grinning way too wide.

“…You planned that,” Angel accused, narrowing his eyes.

Alastor gasped, a hand over his chest. “Me? Oh, heavens, no! Why, it’s as if the universe itself is dropping hints!” He gave Angel a pointed look, his crimson eyes twinkling with mischief. “Isn’t that fascinating?”

Angel stared at him, then at the radio, then back at him. His stomach churned, and not from nausea this time.

“…I hate this. I hate you.”

Alastor only laughed, draping an arm around Angel’s shoulders as he guided him out of the bathroom. “Oh, Ma Jolie Araignée, we both know that’s not true.”

The lullaby played on.

—————

The sound of crackling flames and the sharp scent of something burning pulled Angel from unconsciousness.

Disoriented, he barely registered the frantic squealing of Fat Nuggets or the deep, booming laughter of the fire alarm.

Voices swirled around him, frantic and overlapping, but one cut through the chaos like a knife—Alastor’s.

“Move! Out of the way—let me through!”

Angel barely had time to process anything before something cold and plastic was being pressed over his mouth and nose. A rush of fresh, cool oxygen filled his lungs, and he coughed violently, the acrid taste of smoke clinging to the back of his throat.

“There we are, breathe, breathe,” Alastor’s voice was sharp—too sharp. His usual playful lilt was missing, replaced with something Angel wasn’t used to hearing from him. “Good boy, deep breaths now.”

Angel blinked blearily, eyes burning as he tried to focus. Shapes swam in his vision—Charlie was flapping around, trying to fan out smoke with her coat, Vaggie was barking orders, and Husk was throwing a bucket of something over what used to be the stove.

Oh. The kitchen was on fire. That… probably wasn’t good.

His head lolled slightly, and he barely registered the feeling of something pricking his finger until he heard a faint beeping sound.

“The fuck…?” Angel croaked, his voice hoarse.

“Shush, darling, I’m working,” Alastor snapped, not looking up as he held Angel’s hand steady. He was fiddling with—was that a blood sugar monitor? Where the hell had he pulled that from?

Vaggie, crouched nearby, stared at him. “What the fuck—where did you even get that?”

Alastor didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he examined the tiny screen on the device, eyes darting over the numbers. Whatever he saw made his jaw tighten.

“His blood sugar’s a bit low,” he muttered, finally peeling the oxygen mask away just enough to press a cool glass of water to Angel’s lips. “Drink.”

Angel let him, too disoriented to argue. The water felt amazing against his dry throat, but his head was still swimming. “Why… the hell do you have that?” he rasped.

Alastor’s eyes flicked up, red as a radio dial, glowing faintly in the dim haze of smoke. His usual grin was nowhere to be found.

“Because someone needed to check.”

The room fell eerily silent for a second. Even Husk stopped grumbling as everyone exchanged uneasy glances.

Charlie finally spoke up, hesitant. “Alastor, how do you… even know how to use that?”

Alastor huffed, shoving the device back into his coat like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Oh, please, do you think I’ve spent decades in Hell without picking up a few tricks? A bit of medical knowledge here and there is hardly the strangest thing I’ve dabbled in.”

Angel squinted at him. “Yeah? And what else you been ‘dabblin’ in’? Playin’ doctor behind my back?”

Alastor shot him a look, and for the first time, it wasn’t smug—it was assessing.

“…Something like that,” he murmured, almost too soft to hear.

Angel would’ve questioned him further, but another wave of dizziness hit, and he slumped forward before Alastor caught him with an unnatural ease.

The radio demon sighed, pulling the oxygen mask back over Angel’s face and smoothing his hair down with a surprising gentleness. “Keep that on you for a bit longer,” Alastor instructed.

Angel nodded lethargically, “I-is this j-just oxygen? I feel really tired.” His words were coming out slurred and eyes were blinking out of unison.

Alastor’s eyes narrowed slightly, but his tone remained calm, even soothing. “It's just a bit of supplemental oxygen, darling. You’ll feel better soon. Don’t worry, I’ve got everything under control.” His shadow flickered and swayed, inching closer to Angel’s side like it had a mind of its own.

Before Angel could protest or respond, one of the shadow’s tendrils extended, gently propping a thicker, more comfortable pillow under Angel’s head, while another slid under his legs to lift them up and stack some more pillows under them.

"Easy now," Alastor said, his voice still too calm, as though the chaos around them were nothing more than a mild inconvenience. He turned away briefly, gesturing with his hand as another shadow began to stir from the edges of the room. This one slid across the floor, moving with surprising purpose toward the blood sugar monitor Alastor had just discarded. A low whirring sound echoed through the room as it fetched a small vial from a nearby cabinet, ready for more testing.

Alastor took the vial from the shadow without missing a beat, and as he focused on his task, the shadows continued to comfort their favorite spider Angel.

Another tendril pressed a cold compress to his forehead, soothing his feverish skin, and yet another whispered against his neck like a ghostly hand brushing back the sweat that had begun to form.

Angel's vision blurred again, but he could feel the gentleness of the shadows. He allowed himself to lean into their care, a strange comfort amidst the madness. “I… feel like I’m floatin’...” he mumbled softly.

“You’re just fine,” Alastor responded with a clipped cheeriness, though there was a flicker of concern in his voice. “Now, let’s see what we’re working with here…” He turned the vial in his hands as he prepared the next test, keeping his movements methodical and precise.

Meanwhile, outside the immediate chaos of the kitchen, the rest of the hotel residents were scrambling, trying (and failing) to put out the fire that Angel’s fainting spell had nearly caused.

“The fire’s spreading!” Vaggie yelled, frantically running around the kitchen with a small extinguisher in hand. She aimed it at the small flames licking up the wall, but the powder only seemed to scatter uselessly.

“You’re supposed to point it at the base!” Charlie screamed from the other side of the room, trying to use her coat to beat out the flames, making it worse.

“It’s a stove fire, not an industrial fire,” Husk grumbled, barely looking up from his poker game at the bar as he nonchalantly flicked a match into the flames. “I’m tryin’ to help, here…”

Niffty, ever the optimist, dashed around the room grabbing various cleaning supplies. “I got this! I got this!” she shouted, and before anyone could stop her, she poured an entire bottle of dish soap over the fire. It bubbled and fizzled but did nothing to actually quell the flames.

“This is a disaster!” Vaggie screeched, shaking her head in frustration.

Angel could hear the commotion in the background, muffled by the oxygen mask still covering his face. For a moment, he almost felt like he was floating between reality and some strange, dreamlike state.

“Al,” he muttered, trying to stay conscious, “is everyone always this... dumb when something happens?”

Alastor chuckled softly as he finished preparing the blood sugar test. “I don’t believe they’ve ever been quite this incompetent, darling. But that’s just the charm of it all, isn’t it?” His tone was light and airy, though there was a hint of tension in his posture as he waited for the results.

Angel didn’t reply, too exhausted to argue. He closed his eyes for a moment, only to be gently shaken by one of Alastor’s shadows. The radio demon’s voice followed, still too upbeat for the situation at hand. “Don’t fall asleep just yet, darling. I need you awake for this.”

Angel groaned. “I feel like I’m gonna pass out again.”

“Oh no, you’re far too precious to pass out just yet,” Alastor said smoothly, testing the blood drop with the utmost care, his eyes scanning the results with an almost unsettling intensity.

The silence that followed made Angel’s chest tighten.

Alastor smiled, and it was the most unsettling thing Angel had seen that day.

“Well,” Alastor purred, his voice lowering with an unreadable edge, “it seems we’ve got a very interesting development here.”

Angel looked over with one of his two normal-sized eyes closed and the other half-lidded, trying to stay awake as Alastor said. “Huh?”

“Seems my suspicions were on point,” he said and his shadow, the one that took his shape, seemed gleeful at the small device Alastor was showing it.

“Su…susp—?” He couldn’t finished the word as Alastor leaned in and gave Angel a kiss on the forehead, “now you can rest darling~” he said quietly.

Angel seemed to comply as his he’d slouched down and he was down for the count.

But Alastor would have interesting news to share with Angel, but only after the other was feeling better and after he ate something that won’t burn the hotel down.

Rosie’s parlor was quaint, classy, and elegant—if a little unsettling. Lace curtains, gold-framed mirrors, and soft jazz filled the space like a haunted tea room. The Cannibal Queen herself greeted them with a curious smile and a sharp gleam in her eye.

“Alastor,” she cooed, brushing nonexistent dust off her apron. “What a surprise. You only visit when things are interesting.”

Alastor bowed dramatically. “And today is no exception, chère amie.”

Rosie turned her gaze to Angel, who was slouched and pale but managing to stay upright in a velvet armchair. “Hmm. The spider.” Her tone wasn’t cruel—merely intrigued. “You’re not from my district.”

“Uh… yeah,” Angel rasped. “Sorry for droppin’ in or whatever—he said you could help?”

Rosie hummed thoughtfully and gestured for one of her assistants—a tall, silent Cannibal dressed in white—to bring over some equipment. “Alastor, what exactly do you think is going on?”

Alastor’s smile stretched wider. “I suspect something miraculous. Something biologically improbable, and yet… not impossible. Not here.” He gestured to the district around them. “Not with you.”

Rosie arched a brow. “You think he’s pregnant.”

Angel nearly choked on air. “WHAT?!”

Alastor leaned down beside him and gave his hand a light squeeze. “Darling, please. You’ve been vomiting, dizzy, fainting, reacting poorly to mint, and, might I add, you tried to cook. Something clearly wasn’t right.”

Angel stared at him, slack-jawed. “That doesn’t mean I’m pregnant, it means I’m cursed.”

Rosie chuckled lightly, already snapping on a pair of gloves. “Let’s find out, shall we?” she said simply, nodding for her assistants to begin. “My people can reproduce… we have the tools to test for such things. Sinners like you aren’t supposed to be able to, but… Hell likes to break rules, doesn’t it?”

Angel stared at the ceiling while they checked vitals, drew a bit of blood, and scanned him with something that looked like it was half medical machine, half antique radio.

Alastor never once left his side. His hand remained over Angel’s, his expression unreadable but… uncharacteristically gentle.

After what felt like an eternity, Rosie leaned back with a low hum. “Well,” she said, lips quirking up in amusement. “I don’t know how, and I certainly don’t know why—but congratulations.”

Angel blinked. “Congrat—?”

“You’re pregnant, sugar.”

A stunned silence filled the room.

Angel’s jaw dropped. “I—I—WHAT?! You serious? Like—like for real pregnant? Not like possessed-by-a-hell-beast or egged by some demon thing—actually pregnant?!”

Rosie nodded. “Biological readings are clear. Hormonal shift, subtle but definite. Early stages, but yes.”

Alastor gave a long, slow smile that bordered on maniacal glee. His shadow behind him twisted and danced with excitement.

Angel just sat there, staring down at his stomach like it had betrayed him.

“I—I didn’t even think I could get pregnant,” he stammered.

Alastor leaned down and pressed a kiss to his temple. “Well, love always finds a way, doesn’t it?”

Despite everything—despite the shock, the nausea, the looming existential crisis—Angel felt a strange warmth bloom in his chest.

“…Huh,” he murmured. Then, after a beat: “Can I still drink?”

Rosie smirked. “No.”

Angel groaned and slumped back in the chair. “Hell’s a damn joke.”

Alastor chuckled and gave his hand another squeeze. “Yes. But it’s our joke.”

And for the first time in weeks, Angel felt… something like joy.

Confused. Dizzy. Terrified.

But joy, nonetheless.

8 Weeks – Morning Sickness & Shadows

Nausea came in waves now—sharp, biting, relentless. Angel had taken to sleeping with a trash can next to the bed. Alastor’s shadows had grown more animated, curling protectively around him as if they could scare the nausea away.

Once, Angel passed out on the couch mid-complaint. When he woke, a blanket had been draped over him, tea left on the table, and one shadow lightly tracing circles on his stomach like it knew.
He didn’t say anything. He just quietly curled around it.

Alastor had become… something else lately.

Not just attentive. Hypervigilant. Hovering.

“Bedrest,” he said flatly one morning when Angel tried to shuffle into the kitchen. “Absolutely not. Get back to bed.”

“I just wanted to make toast,” Angel grumbled, hand gripping the counter for balance.

Alastor was at his side in a blink, a shadow slithering up to tuck itself beneath Angel’s elbow. “You’re not lifting a finger.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“You’re growing a child,” Alastor snapped, more fiercely than he meant to. His voice softened after a moment. “Our child. You’re not a burden. Let me take care of you.”

Angel blinked at him, a little stunned. “I’m not used to… y’know. Anyone doing that.”

“I’m aware.” Alastor’s jaw tightened. His shadows wrapped closer, holding Angel as if to keep the entire world from touching him. “But you’re not alone anymore.”

From that day on, Angel wasn’t allowed to even attempt chores. If he so much as looked at a broom, a tendril would pluck it away and scold him with a flick to the wrist. Alastor brought him every meal, fluffed the pillows behind his back, and even set up a bell beside the bed for when Angel needed anything.

“I’m not helpless,” Angel mumbled one night, curled on his side.

“No,” Alastor agreed, brushing back his hair. “But you’re mine. And I take care of what’s mine.”

Angel didn’t argue with that.

He just quietly leaned into the hand, letting himself be held.

Angel was never gonna admit it, but… he liked being spoiled.

At first, he’d tried to fight it. Whenever Alastor would fluff his pillows for the third time that day, he’d swat his hand away and grumble something about not being a damn princess. But the moment Alastor pulled back, his shadows curling in disappointment, Angel would hesitate.

Because, honestly?

No one had ever taken care of him like this before.

Alastor didn’t just do things for him—he anticipated what Angel needed before he even said a word. If Angel so much as shivered, a blanket would be draped over his shoulders before he could complain. If he sat up in bed looking queasy, a shadow would press a glass of water into his hand, followed closely by a cool cloth against his forehead.

The biggest shock, though? Food.

Angel wasn’t used to regular meals, let alone ones prepared for him. Alastor had always liked cooking, but now he went all out.

“Breakfast in bed,” Alastor announced one morning, sweeping into the room with a tray. “Eggs, toast, fruit, and—” he set down a steaming mug with a flourish, “ginger tea for nausea.”

Angel blinked up at him. “You serious?”

“I always take nutrition seriously,” Alastor said matter-of-factly. “You have a very important job right now, Angel. Growing our little one requires proper sustenance!”

Angel snorted, but he still reached for the tea. “Guess you’re really into this whole ‘doting husband’ act, huh?”

Alastor’s expression softened. “Not an act, dear.”

Angel paused, fingers tightening around the cup.

Yeah. Yeah, he was starting to get that.

12 Weeks – Alastor Hovering

“I don’t need a babysitter, I need a burger,” Angel snapped, arms crossed over his chest as he stared down the plate in front of him like it had personally insulted him. A colorful arrangement of steamed vegetables, grilled salmon, and some bland quinoa monstrosity stared right back at him.

Alastor, ever composed, adjusted his tie and smiled with forced politeness. “It’s organic. Full of omega-3s. Very good for fetal development.”

Angel rolled his eyes. “I’m growing our kid, not turning into a rabbit.”

Alastor raised a brow. “You’re not turning into a corpse either, if I can help it. Which is exactly what will happen if you keep eating that deep-fried horror show you call dinner.”

Angel scoffed. “It was just scorpion. Fried. In vodka. What’s the problem?”

Alastor gave a dry laugh. “The problem, my dear, is that you are with child. And according to all my research—” He pulled a dusty medical journal from seemingly nowhere, waving it with the flourish of a magician. “—alcohol-drenched arachnids are not a recommended prenatal snack.”

Angel sneered, pointing an accusatory claw at the offending quinoa. “And this is? It smells like sadness and dirt.”

In the dim light, Alastor’s shadows stirred behind him. One reached forward and gently pushed the plate closer to Angel. Another tugged the scorpion recipe Angel had been hiding out of his hoodie pocket and flicked it into the trash.

“Traitors. All of you,” Angel growled at the shadows.

The one nearest his shoulder gave a soft, teasing pat to his head like it was trying to soothe a fussy child. He batted it away with a dramatic sigh.

“Look, I appreciate the whole ‘hovering husband’ thing, but c’mon—can’t I cheat a little? Just one greasy burger?”

Alastor’s smile softened for a moment, his voice losing a bit of its usual theatrics. “Not while you’re still so early. You’ve barely passed your first trimester, dearest. I just… want to be careful.”

Angel blinked, thrown off by the sudden seriousness. The radio demon looked genuinely concerned. Not his usual smug, showboaty concern—but something real.

“…You really are scared, huh?”

Alastor didn’t answer right away. Instead, he leaned over, resting a hand on Angel’s swollen abdomen—barely a curve yet, but already fiercely guarded.

“I’ve done many things, Angel. Terrible things. But this… this is new. I don’t want to get it wrong.”

Angel’s glare faltered. His scowl softened. “Well, you’re doin’ fine. Just—ease up a little. Let me have some fun, too. I’m not made of glass.”

Alastor smirked, leaning closer. “Fine. One cheat meal. But if I catch even a whiff of deep-fried tarantula—”

“I swear, Al, if you bring up the scorpion one more time, I’m throwing this quinoa at your smug little face.”

A long pause.

“…Can I watch?”

Angel threw the quinoa. Missed. Fat Nuggets waddled in and immediately began eating it off the floor

16 Weeks – Hurt/Comfort

It started like most nights lately—restless.

Angel tossed and turned in the massive bed he shared with Alastor, the plush blankets twisted around his limbs. He was starting to show now, the faint swell of his belly just enough to make sleep uncomfortable. But it wasn’t the discomfort that stirred him tonight.

It was him.

Valentino.

The dream had been vivid—so vivid it didn’t feel like a dream at all. Cold hands. Smoke in the air. That awful perfume. The sound of his voice, thick with cruelty, whispering threats in his ear while Angel was too weak to move. The chains, the laugh, the—

Angel jerked awake with a strangled gasp.

For a moment, he didn’t know where he was. His vision swam with darkness. His breathing hitched. He felt trapped, like the bed had turned into a coffin, his chest heavy and tight.

Under the cold press of fear and the sick, familiar numbness that came after. The helplessness that made him want to claw his skin off just to feel something else.

His hands scrambled over his chest, then down to his stomach. He was shaking. Cold. Too cold. His breath hitched as he pressed his palms to the gentle curve of his bump—

And felt it.

Just a flutter. Barely there. A small ripple under the skin, like butterfly wings or bubbles in warm water.

Angel froze.

The panic paused, suspended mid-air. The shadows of the past fell quiet. Everything in him stilled.

That was them.

Their baby.

A soft sob broke loose from his throat—quiet, but deep. Not fear. Not pain. Not even sadness.

Love. Fierce, aching love that bloomed in his chest so fast, so bright, it made his ribs feel like they might crack open just to hold it.

He cradled his stomach in both arms, voice catching in his throat. “Baby… hey, sweetheart… it’s okay…”

He didn’t realize he was crying until the warmth of a hand—familiar, careful—touched his back.

Alastor.

He hadn’t knocked. He hadn’t needed to. The shadows had already alerted him, slipping through cracks in the walls like smoke, like instinct. They filled the room now—looming and alive but not threatening. Dozens of tendrils curled through the dim air like ribbons, surrounding the bed in a protective dome of darkness.

Alastor said nothing at first. His usual grin was nowhere to be seen. He simply sat beside Angel and pulled him into a gentle embrace, slow and deliberate, like he was cradling something fragile.

Angel clung to him instantly.

The sobs started fresh again as he buried his face in Alastor’s chest, the sounds ragged and broken. “I… I saw him,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Val. I couldn’t move. He was right there, and I couldn’t get away, and I knew—I knew he was gonna hurt the baby.”

His fingers clenched in Alastor’s shirt, desperate and afraid. “I couldn’t stop him, Al…”

“You’re safe,” Alastor said quietly, his hand moving in slow, soothing motions through Angel’s tangled hair. “He’s gone. And he will not touch you. Not ever again.”

Angel was shaking too hard to speak.

The shadows moved closer, wrapping around the bed like a cocoon. One of them gently brushed over Angel’s side, another coiled lightly around his arm. Not tight. Not trapping. Just there. Like a friend. Like family.

“The baby kicked,” Angel said suddenly, voice so small it was barely a breath.

Alastor’s fingers stilled.

Angel pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes red-rimmed and wide. “They kicked for the first time, Al… right in the middle of all that. Like they were trying to tell me something.”

Alastor’s expression softened in a way Angel rarely saw.

“They were,” he said, voice hushed, reverent. “They were telling you they’re here.”

Angel placed a hand gently over his belly. The flutter was gone, but the memory of it burned bright beneath his skin.

“I’m not gonna let anything happen to them,” he whispered fiercely. “I don’t care what I have to do. I don’t care who I have to burn. No one—no one—gets to hurt them.”

Alastor leaned forward and kissed his temple. “And you won’t be doing it alone.”

One of his shadows slid over Angel’s bump and curled around it, protective and warm. A second curled around his hand and mimicked holding it. It wasn’t scary—it was soft. Like someone wrapping them in a promise.

Alastor rested his forehead against Angel’s. “No one will ever hurt either of you again,” he murmured. “I swear it. With every ounce of what I am. I will raze Hell itself before I let harm come to what is mine.”

Angel closed his eyes as fresh tears spilled over—but these weren’t laced with fear. They were soft. He let out a shaky laugh and leaned into Alastor, resting his head against the other demon’s shoulder, one hand curled protectively over the curve of his belly.

Then—flutter.

Another kick.

Angel gasped softly, smiling through his tears. “They’re a little fighter.”

“They are…just like you,” Alastor reassured and just as Alastor embraced Angel closer, his shadows wrapped themselves around Angel, a few tendrils wrapping around the baby bump, comforting the offspring within as they kicked away.

20 Weeks – It’s a Girl

The examination room in Rosie’s district was nothing like a typical clinic—then again, nothing about Rosie or her domain could be called typical. The walls were warm with soft rose hues, flickering with the glow of enchanted lanterns. Faint classical music drifted through the air, and the whole place smelled faintly of chamomile and old parchment.

Angel lay back on a velvet-lined examination table, his claws nervously picking at the corner of a pillow beneath his back. He was in his second trimester now, and though the nausea had finally died down, the emotional whiplash had not.

Alastor stood beside him, eerily silent for once, holding Angel’s hand with both of his gloved ones. His red eyes were locked on the monitor Rosie was fiddling with.

“This may feel a bit cold, dear,” Rosie warned as she applied the magical gel to Angel’s growing bump. The gel shimmered faintly, glowing golden under the soft lighting. “But it’ll let us get a good look at the little one.”

Angel exhaled shakily, leaning back. “Let’s hope she ain’t flipping us off again like last time.”

Rosie chuckled, her many bangles jingling as she adjusted the crystal-tipped wand. “She’s got personality, that’s for sure. Just like her parents.”

The monitor flickered to life, bathing the room in soft white light. Static blurred the image for a second before resolving into a grainy but unmistakable picture.

A tiny body. A flickering heartbeat. The curve of a spine, the flutter of movement. Fingers. Toes.

Rosie smiled, her voice warm. “She’s healthy. Strong heartbeat. And yes—she’s a girl.”

For a moment, no one said anything.

Angel blinked. His mouth opened like he wanted to make a joke—but then he just covered it with one hand as tears began to well in his eyes. “A girl,” he whispered, voice cracking. “We’re having a girl.”

Alastor said nothing. He just kept his hand over Angel’s, eyes still fixed on the monitor, unblinking. His face was unreadable, but the faint trembling in his hand said everything.

Behind him, one of his shadows—larger than the others—extended upward, slowly, reverently. It brushed the edge of the screen, its smokey tendrils curling around the image of the baby like it was something sacred. Holy.

Angel sniffled and gave a watery laugh, brushing at his eyes. “Guess she’s gonna have her daddy’s spooky vibe.”

Alastor chuckled softly—quietly. It was the rare kind of laugh that wasn’t manic or theatrical, but real. “Let’s hope she doesn’t come out with antlers. That might be a bit much.”

Angel smirked through the tears. “I dunno, I think they’d look cute on her.”

Rosie handed him a tissue, her smile fond. “She’ll be adored no matter what.”

Angel wiped his eyes and looked up at Alastor. “You okay, sweetheart?”

Alastor didn’t answer right away. His expression was softer than Angel had ever seen—no grin, no eerie gleam. Just wonder. Awe.

He finally looked down at Angel, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “I think… I’ve never felt this kind of fear before,” he admitted quietly. “But also this kind of joy.”

Angel reached for him and pulled him down for a kiss. “We’re gonna figure it out,” he whispered. “Together.”

The monitor beeped softly in the background as Rosie quietly stepped out to give them privacy.

Alastor leaned his forehead against Angel’s, the shadows curling tighter around them like arms. “Yes, my darling spider. Together.”

28 Weeks – Angel Nesting

Angel turned the hotel suite upside down building a “baby zone.” Soft pillows, blankets, plush animals, and a bizarrely elaborate crib made from spider silk and bloodwood.

“I can’t help it, I need the fluff!”

Alastor observed from the doorway with a proud, mildly horrified look.

“You’re nesting like a cryptid bird.”

“Shut up and pass me the glitter glue.”

34 Weeks – Back Pain & Piggy Nurses

Angel Dust lay sprawled on his side in the middle of their absurdly overstuffed bed, surrounded by a fortress of pillows that did little to relieve the sharp, burning ache in his lower back. His belly, massive and round at thirty-four weeks, shifted slightly with every breath, and even the smallest movement now required the kind of effort reserved for lifting furniture.

He groaned dramatically, one leg hanging off the edge of the bed, the other propped up by at least three cushions. “I swear to Lucifer, if this baby doesn’t come out perfect, I’m gonna sue biology for emotional damages.”

A tiny squeak answered him.

Fat Nuggets, wearing a makeshift nurse’s cap made from a folded napkin and tape, had climbed delicately onto his hip and was now pacing in tiny circles—squeaking in what Angel could only interpret as deeply offended concern.

“Aww, Nurse Nuggets, I’m not mad at you, baby,” Angel cooed tiredly, shifting slightly to stroke the piglet’s back. “You’re the only one around here who understands real suffering.”

“Now, now,” Alastor chided playfully as he knelt behind Angel, his long fingers working gentle, precise circles into the sore muscles of his spine. “I do believe I’ve earned some credit in the realm of comfort.”

Angel sighed, melting slightly as Alastor found a particularly tight knot in his lower back. “Okay, okay… you’re not the worst.”

Alastor raised a brow. “High praise from a man currently shaped like a gloriously overripe melon.”

Angel snorted, which turned into a groan as another jolt of discomfort shot down his leg. “Not funny, Radio Boy.”

Alastor leaned down and pressed a soft kiss between Angel’s shoulder blades. “It’s a little funny.”

While he continued massaging, one of his shadows slithered around the foot of the bed. It rose and stretched like a cat before pressing cool, comforting tendrils against Angel’s swollen feet. The shadow began kneading them in slow, practiced movements—strangely elegant for something without a physical form.

Angel exhaled slowly, finally starting to relax. “You really went and trained your creepy shadows to do foot rubs? That’s romantic… and mildly disturbing.”

“They’re quite gifted multitaskers,” Alastor said cheerfully, his voice warm. “I’d say they’ve become quite attached to you.”

Another tiny squeak.

Fat Nuggets had sat down on Angel’s hip and was now pressing his little hooves into his side like he, too, was trying to help.

“Okay, you win,” Angel muttered, eyes fluttering closed. “I’ve got my own personal massage team. I’m spoiled.”

“You’re cherished,” Alastor corrected, rubbing slower now, his voice dropping to a rare tenderness. “And you’re doing so well, my dear. She’ll be divine… just like you.”

Angel blinked tiredly, emotions bubbling under the surface as they always did these days. “You really think so?”

Alastor paused his hands just long enough to lean close to Angel’s ear. “I know so.”

And though his back still ached, his ankles were still swollen, and he felt like an overfilled balloon about to pop, Angel let himself relax. Surrounded by pillows, piggy nurses, and shadows that cared, he allowed himself—for just a moment—to feel completely safe.

38 Weeks – Emotional Overload

The morning started innocently enough. The smell of toasted bread and cinnamon filled the hotel kitchen, drifting up into the halls. Angel had waddled downstairs in one of Alastor’s oversized shirts, hair mussed, eyes still half-lidded from sleep. He hadn’t meant to cry today.

He really hadn’t.

But there it was—sitting on the plate like a love letter written in crumbs and melted butter.

Toast. Cut into perfect little heart shapes.

With strawberry preserves swirled into a tiny smiley face.

Angel stared at the plate in silence for all of five seconds before the dam broke.

The tears hit instantly—ugly, messy sobs that rattled his entire body as he crumpled onto the nearest chair. Fat Nuggets, from his perch on the counter, let out a squeak of alarm and immediately jumped into his lap, nuzzling against his belly in distress.

Alastor, who had just turned away to pour tea, glanced over and blinked.

“Oh dear,” he said softly, setting down the teapot and striding over with deliberate calm. “What’s the matter now, my darling?” He crouched down beside Angel, voice gentle, silk handkerchief already in hand.

Angel choked on a sob and pointed helplessly at the plate. “You—hic—cut my toast into hearts,” he wailed. “You’re so sweet, it’s disgusting!”

Alastor blinked again. “Ah.” He dabbed at Angel’s tears carefully, brushing his damp cheeks with an almost reverent tenderness. “Yes, well. I suppose that’s the end of my reputation.”

“I’m fat, emotional, and everything hurts—and you’re over here being the perfect fuckin’ boyfriend. Who does that?!” Angel hiccupped again, burying his face into Fat Nuggets’s fur. “I don’t deserve you.”

Alastor gave a quiet, amused chuckle and pressed a kiss to Angel’s temple. “I’ll endeavor to be more vile after breakfast,” he murmured.

“You better,” Angel sniffled, voice still thick and warbly. “I want you to do something mildly evil by noon.”

“Very well,” Alastor said, utterly sincere. “I shall verbally eviscerate Baxter on the hour. Does that suffice?”

Angel gave a wet laugh as more tears streamed down his face. “You’re so weird. I love you.”

Alastor’s smile softened as he gently cupped Angel’s face. “And I adore every erratic, hormonal, dramatic inch of you.”

Angel blinked at him, teary-eyed. “Even when I cried for three hours because you said I couldn’t name the baby ‘Princess Fangs McBitey’?”

“Especially then.”

Fat Nuggets squeaked his agreement from Angel’s lap and pawed at one of the heart-shaped toasts, as if encouraging him to eat.

Angel looked at the plate again, this time smiling through the tears. “It really does look cute.”

“Eat, mon cœur. You need your strength,” Alastor said, placing the toast in Angel’s hand. “We’re in the home stretch now.”

Angel nodded, finally biting into one of the hearts. “Home stretch sucks.”

Alastor chuckled and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, pulling him close. “Yes, but the prize will be more than worth it.”

And for the first time that morning, Angel believed it.

40 Weeks – Overdue & Over It

Angel Dust stood in the middle of the hotel lobby like a ticking time bomb in designer slippers. His hands—two on his hips, two cradling the underside of his massive belly—screamed don’t test me without saying a word.

He was round, overdue, and utterly done with existence.

“If one more person asks if I’ve ‘popped yet,’ I’m gonna start throwing chairs,” he snapped, eye twitching as a demon maid skittered past him with a mop and averted her gaze like she was afraid to catch his wrath by proximity.

Alastor, of course, lounged nearby like this was all the most delightful thing he’d ever seen. His smile was wide and sharp as ever, but there was a softness behind it. A fondness that made Angel want to slap him and cry at the same time.

“My dear,” Alastor drawled, tipping his head just so, “you are simply radiant with homicidal energy. Positively divine.”

“Radiant, huh?” Angel snapped. “Maybe I should direct that glow into your face.”

Alastor chuckled warmly. “How poetic.”

A shadow slithered across the floor toward Angel and wrapped gently around his waist, pressing delicately to the underside of his belly like a support strap. Angel didn’t flinch—it had been doing this for weeks. He leaned into it instinctively, muttering under his breath.

“Thanks, creeper.”

The shadow wiggled proudly in response.

Angel let out a heavy sigh, rubbing his aching lower back. “I’m so fuckin’ done. My ankles look like two balloons in a blood pressure contest. I’ve peed, like, nine times since breakfast. I haven’t seen my own—” he gestured downward vaguely, “—anything in weeks.”

Alastor drifted closer, just enough to rest his hand atop Angel’s belly as the baby gave a solid thump in protest.

“She disagrees with your dramatics,” he mused.

Angel groaned. “She’s been kicking me in the ribs like she’s tryna fight her way out.”

“She has your flair for entrance,” Alastor replied with a smirk. “And your sass.”

“She’s grounded,” Angel said flatly. “The second she’s out. No parties. No boys. No summoning circles. Forever.”

Fat Nuggets squeaked in agreement from the nearby couch before waddling over to press his snout gently to Angel’s shin.

Alastor watched them with a strange mix of amusement and something else—something closer to awe. “You do realize she won’t listen to any of that, yes?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Angel huffed, sinking carefully into a chair. “Let me dream, Al.”

Alastor knelt in front of him, adjusting the cushion beneath Angel’s back with the tenderness of someone handling glass. “Not long now,” he said, voice low, smoothing his hand over the swell of Angel’s belly. “She’ll come when she’s ready.”

Angel looked down at him, eyes heavy with exhaustion but shining with something deeper. “She better. I’m at my limit. This kid is late and dramatic… just like her dad.”

Alastor blinked, then grinned wide. “You flatter me.”

A sharp twinge pulled across Angel’s belly, enough to make him suck in a breath. His hands tightened on the arms of the chair.

Alastor straightened immediately. “Angel?”

“…She kicked,” Angel said, breathless. “But, like—weirdly. That one was… different.”

Alastor’s shadows stirred around them.

He offered his hand. “Shall we alert Rosie?”

Angel looked up at him, face pale, eyes a little wide. Then he gave a shaky smirk.

“…Finally. Let’s get this over with.”

Alastor’s grin sharpened.

“With pleasure, my love.”

Alastor was able to get Angel to Cannibal Town really quick with his shadow magic. And as soon as they arrived, Rosie knew it was time. And because Angel was overdue, she had everything and everyone ready for the surgery.

Angel sat on the edge of the hospital bed, legs dangling, gripping the sheets tightly as another contraction rolled through his body. He gritted his teeth, his four hands clenching and unclenching, sweat dampening the fur along his forehead.

"Fuck—okay—okay, this is really happening," he panted, staring at the clock on the wall like it was personally offending him. The sterile, dimly lit surgical suite smelled like antiseptic and something faintly metallic, which only added to his growing unease.

Rosie, clad in a pristine white coat, finished adjusting her gloves before giving Angel a reassuring smile. “You’re doing beautifully, dear. Everything is on schedule.”

Alastor was beside him, unusually still, his ever-present grin softened into something almost… reverent. His shadows flickered along the walls, coiling like nervous animals.

Angel exhaled shakily, looking at Rosie. “So, uh… what’s the plan again? Remind me before I start freaking out.”

Rosie chuckled, setting up the IV. “It’s a routine cesarean. We’ll numb you from the waist down, make a careful incision, and deliver your daughter safely. I’ll be overseeing everything personally. You’ll be awake the whole time.”

“Awake?” Angel winced. “Can’t ya just, y’know, knock me the fuck out?”

Alastor hummed, brushing a gloved hand over Angel’s knuckles. “Now, now, my dear—don’t you want to witness the grand debut of our little masterpiece?”

Angel gave him a look that screamed I will kill you the second I’m capable of moving again.

Rosie simply patted his arm. “You’ll be perfectly comfortable. We’re just waiting for the anesthesiologist to—ah, there we go.”

A masked demon approached with a syringe, and within moments, Angel felt a strange tingling sensation spread through his lower half. It wasn’t immediate—first a numbness, then an absence of sensation altogether.

Angel exhaled sharply. “Oh, that’s weird.”

The nurses helped him lie back, draping a blue surgical curtain across his chest so he couldn’t see the procedure itself. He swallowed hard, suddenly feeling incredibly exposed.

Alastor leaned in close, his voice low and warm. “You’re doing marvelously, my darling.”

Angel scoffed, though his voice wobbled. “I’m literally just lying here.”

“And you’re doing it so well.”

Angel huffed a laugh despite himself. “You’re lucky I love you.”

Alastor chuckled, squeezing his hand. “I’d be a fool to ever doubt it.”

Then Rosie spoke. “We’re beginning now.”

Angel stiffened instinctively, though he couldn’t feel a thing. He could sense the movement, the gentle tugging as the team worked, but no pain—just pressure. His heart pounded.

“Al… talk to me,” Angel said quickly, suddenly needing something else to focus on.

Alastor’s grip on his hand tightened ever so slightly. “Of course! Did I ever tell you about the time I convinced a demon lord his mansion was haunted by his own shadow? Oh, it was a riot—”

Angel’s nervous laughter mixed with a sharp intake of breath as he felt a particularly odd shift in his abdomen.

“Almost there,” Rosie assured him, her voice calm and precise. “She’s just about ready to meet you.”

Angel swallowed thickly, his chest tightening with something huge—fear, excitement, anticipation, all twisting together into one overwhelming knot.

And then—

A sudden, weightless sensation, followed by—

A cry.

A sharp, wailing, perfect cry.

Angel’s breath hitched, his vision blurring instantly with tears.

“She’s here,” Rosie announced warmly.

The fluorescent lights of Rosie’s clinic buzzed low above, casting sterile shadows on the pristine tiled floor. The sharp scent of antiseptic filled the air, but beneath it lingered something heavier—tension, nerves, and the electric hum of something life-changing about to unfold.

Alastor barely breathed as she passed the baby to the nurse to be cleaned and checked. Angel blinked back tears, twisting slightly to see, desperate to know—desperate to see her.

And when they brought her over…

The room fell silent.

She was tiny—too small, just under five pounds, wrapped in a soft cream towel. Her skin was dusted in pale, snowy fur, and along her shoulders, hips, and back bloomed faint pink fawn-like spots, glowing subtly like celestial freckles.

She had four little arms, all tucked close to her chest, the lower set twitching a bit as they seemed to have more room to flex. Her legs were digitigrade, her feet ending in cloven hooves, and from her lower back flicked a fluffy deer tail, pink-tipped and quivering.

Her ears were unmistakably Alastor’s—large, twitchy deer ears, one flopping a little to the side. A tuft of soft white-pink hair curled on her head like candy floss. And her face…

That heart-shaped face. So familiar. So impossibly beautiful.

Angel’s lip trembled as she was placed against his chest, tiny and fragile, cooing softly. “Oh… oh my God…”

“She’s…” Alastor trailed off, uncharacteristically breathless. “She’s perfect.”

His shadow curled upward from the floor without permission, gently wrapping around both of them like a curtain shielding something sacred.

Angel looked down at her with tears in his eyes, running a finger across her tiny cheek. She blinked up at him, red eyes cloudy but calm.

“She’s got your ears… and my legs,” he sniffed, then gave a watery laugh. “She’s already got better fashion sense than most of Hell.”

Alastor’s hand hovered just over her small back, not daring to touch at first. But when he did, the baby didn’t cry—she nestled closer, her four fingers curling instinctively around his claw.

“She’s strong,” Rosie said gently. “Stronger than she looks. It’s rare, what she is… but it’s real.”

Angel managed a faint laugh from the table, half-delirious but lucid enough to rasp, “What’re we callin’ her?”

Four tiny arms shifted from the blanket. A faint fidget. She curled her upper set close to her chest, while her lower arms pawed toward his coat with instinct. Her legs bent awkwardly under the swaddle, toes barely peeking out—digitigrade and cloven at the ends, a devil’s gait even from birth.

Alastor exhaled a shaky breath he hadn’t meant to hold.

Shadows began to rise from the walls like mist, curling toward them with care. One pressed gently to her back, another encircled her lower arms as if giving her a hug. Another passed slowly across her brow, cool and feather-light, like a kiss.

They loved her already.

“I…” Alastor began, but had to stop. He looked at Angel, who gave a faint nod—encouraging, even half-dazed from medication.

Alastor looked back down at his daughter.

Angel blinked, lips parting slightly as the word rolled over him.

“It’s French,” Alastor added, glancing at him. “For ‘spider.’ It felt only right—she is yours, after all.”

There was a long beat of silence before Angel choked on a sob and laughed through it. “You fuckin’ sap. That’s… that’s perfect.”

Alastor leaned forward, lowering their daughter toward Angel’s chest so he could see her better. “Armenia,” he whispered again, as if trying the name on her soul, “welcome to Hell.”

The baby gave a soft coo and wrapped one of her four little hands around the fabric of Angel’s hospital gown.

Angel smiled, tears slipping freely down his cheeks. “She’s gonna break hearts, y’know.”

Alastor’s grin widened just slightly. “Yes. And anyone who tries to hurt her… will regret it profoundly.”

The sterile white of the surgical suite had given way to the warm, fire-lit comfort of Rosie’s humble bedroom, where Angel now rested in a plush bed, wrapped in soft blankets and propped up by an unreasonable number of pillows. His skin still had that post-surgery paleness, and he was sore in ways he didn’t know were possible—but none of that mattered.

Armenia was curled against his chest, swaddled in a soft red blanket with tiny black spiders embroidered on the hem. Her four little arms were tucked close to her chest, and her tiny cloven hooves kicked gently whenever someone spoke too loud. Her deer ears gave the occasional twitch, and her little pink tail peeked out from the folds of the blanket, flicking with all the newborn sass in the world.

Alastor sat right beside them, posture straight but face glowing. He’d never looked prouder in his life.

“Okay, but like… why does she already look cooler than me?” Angel Dust mumbled, staring at his daughter with a dazed grin.

“Because she’s a perfect combination of you and me,” Alastor replied smugly.

“She’s got my legs,” Angel pointed out proudly. “And my sass.”

“She has my ears,” Alastor countered. “And my refined taste.”

“Refined? Please, she barfed on your coat.”

“I still consider that an honor.”

Their banter was interrupted by a chorus of “Awww!” as the rest of the hotel crew finally gathered around the bed.

Charlie gasped when she saw Araenia, her hands clutched to her chest. “She’s adorable! Oh my gosh, look at her ears!”

“She’s so tiny,” Vaggie added, her voice softer than usual as she leaned closer, instinctively mindful not to crowd the new parents. “Like, scary tiny. But wow… she’s beautiful.”

“She’s got four arms,” Husk noted, peering over Charlie’s shoulder with a tired squint.

Fat Nuggets squeaked excitedly and scrambled up onto the bed. Araenia, surprisingly alert for a newborn, turned her head just slightly and made a soft chirping sound at the piglet.

“Holy shit,” Angel laughed through his tears. “She already likes him.”

“She’s family,” Alastor said with a grin. “Of course she does.”

Niffty bounced on her heels, eyes sparkling. “I love her little markings! They look just like Angel’s but all… fawn-y and cute!”

Armenia gave a sneeze—tiny, delicate, and absurdly precious—and the entire room collectively melted into a fresh wave of “Awwwww!”

Angel leaned his head back against the pillows, smiling so hard it hurt. “Okay, okay, everyone shut up before I start cryin’ again.”

Alastor, without a word, reached over and gently wiped the corners of Angel’s eyes with his handkerchief.

“I’ve already cried enough to flood a ring of Hell,” Angel muttered.

“And yet,” Alastor said, voice thick with emotion, “I wouldn’t change a moment of it.”

Armenia stirred, then yawned—four little fingers stretching out to clutch the lapel of Alastor’s coat. The room fell quiet again as the baby snuggled into Angel’s chest with a tiny sigh.

Alastor placed a hand over her back, his thumb gently stroking one of the pink fawn-rings. “She’s going to change everything.”

Angel nodded, eyes half-lidded from exhaustion but shining. “She already has.”