Chapter Text
Alastor had spent the better part of a century believing there were very few things left in existence capable of genuinely surprising him.
Death no longer held any mystery.
Power no longer impressed him.
Even nearly being cut in half by Adam had, in retrospect, been more irritating than frightening.
Yet somehow, as he stood alone in his room at the Hazbin Hotel, one hand pressed against the slight swell beneath his red pinstripe shirt, he found himself faced with a situation so absurd that his mind refused to process it.
Something was wrong.
Terribly wrong.
For weeks now, he had been attempting to identify the source of the problem.
The nausea had been the first sign.
At first he had dismissed it as lingering effects from his injuries. Adam’s attack had done far more damage than anyone realized. Lucifer’s healing had repaired the visible wounds, but perhaps something had gone awry during the process.
Then the exhaustion had started.
Alastor did not get tired.
Not like this.
Not to the point where he found himself dozing off in armchairs or struggling to drag himself out of bed in the mornings.
Then came the bloating.
His stomach had gradually begun to swell.
Not enough for anyone else to notice.
Yet.
But Alastor noticed everything.
The change was impossible to miss whenever he changed clothes.
The fabric around his waist fit differently.
His vests felt tighter.
His suspenders sat at a slightly different angle.
Most concerning of all were the cravings.
Alastor had always been particular about his food.
He preferred rich, savory meals. Bitter coffee. Salt. Meat.
Sweets had never interested him in the slightest.
In fact, he often found them unpleasantly overpowering.
Yet over the past few weeks, he had found himself developing an inexplicable fondness for exactly the sort of food he normally avoided.
Pancakes.
The thought alone made him grimace.
And yet he had somehow consumed an entire stack one morning before fully realizing what he was doing.
Worse still had been the caramel apples.
Not ordinary caramel apples.
Lucifer’s caramel apples.
The absurdly sweet ones the king seemed to keep on hand at all times.
Alastor had spent nearly twenty minutes staring at a bowl of them in the hotel kitchen before finally snatching one and convincing himself he was merely conducting an experiment.
Three apples later, the experiment had become significantly harder to justify.
He refused to acknowledge how many times he had caught himself wondering whether Lucifer happened to have more hidden somewhere in the hotel.
The entire experience was deeply disturbing.
But none of that compared to the worst symptom.
Lucifer.
Alastor’s eye twitched.
Just thinking about the king was enough to make his antlers vibrate with annoyance.
And yet…
For reasons he could not explain, being around Lucifer made him feel calmer.
Safer.
The nausea eased.
The discomfort faded.
The strange restless feeling in his chest settled.
It was infuriating.
Absolutely infuriating.
He hated Lucifer Morningstar.
The feeling was entirely mutual.
Their interactions consisted almost exclusively of insults, passive-aggressive remarks, and thinly veiled threats.
Yet every instinct in Alastor’s body seemed determined to drag him toward the king whenever he was nearby.
He had spent weeks trying to ignore it.
Weeks pretending everything was perfectly normal.
Weeks convincing himself that there had to be another explanation.
Now he wasn’t so sure.
The room was silent.
Almost.
Alastor slowly lowered himself into the armchair beside the window.
Rain tapped softly against the glass.
The distant sounds of Pentagram City echoed far below.
Normally his senses filtered most of it into background noise.
Tonight something felt different.
His hearing seemed unusually sharp.
Every creak of the building sounded louder.
Every distant conversation carried farther.
Every heartbeat in the hotel echoed faintly through the walls.
Charlie downstairs.
Vaggie in the lobby.
Angel Dust somewhere on the second floor.
Husk behind the bar.
Steady.
Normal.
Then—
Alastor froze.
His smile faltered.
Only for a second.
But it faltered.
There it was.
A sound.
Tiny.
Faint.
Almost impossible to hear.
His ears slowly rotated.
The sound remained.
A rapid thump-thump-thump.
Fast.
Far faster than an adult heartbeat.
His fingers tightened against his stomach.
The sound continued.
His pulse quickened.
No.
No, no, no.
That wasn’t possible.
He listened harder.
And heard another.
Then another.
Then another.
Four distinct heartbeats.
Tiny.
Rapid.
Alive.
The room suddenly felt too small.
The static around his form crackled violently.
The lights flickered.
A chair across the room exploded into splinters.
Alastor didn’t notice.
Four.
There were four.
Four tiny heartbeats nestled beneath his own.
His hand trembled against his stomach.
For a long moment he simply sat there.
Motionless.
Silent.
His mind racing through every possibility.
Every explanation.
Every alternative.
None existed.
Because he already knew the answer.
The symptoms.
The cravings.
The swelling.
The instinctive pull toward Lucifer.
The heat.
His heat.
A heat that should not have happened for years.
A heat triggered by Lucifer’s healing magic.
A heat neither of them had been prepared for.
The memory made his stomach twist.
The battle had been over.
Adam was dead.
The hotel still stood.
And Alastor should have died.
He remembered staggering away from the celebration before anyone could see the extent of his injuries.
Every step had been agony.
Blood soaked through his coat.
His vision blurred.
The wound across his chest burned like liquid fire.
He had barely made it back to one of his old radio towers before his legs gave out beneath him.
After that, everything became fragmented.
Scattered pieces of memory drifting through static.
Pain.
Darkness.
Voices.
The sensation of something warm pressing against his chest.
Golden light.
Then—
Consciousness returned all at once.
Alastor’s eyes had snapped open.
For a brief moment he hadn’t understood what he was seeing.
Lucifer Morningstar.
The king was kneeling beside him.
One hand pressed against his chest.
Golden magic flowed between them.
The wound that should have killed him was already closing.
“What are you doing?” Alastor had demanded.
Lucifer looked equally annoyed to be there.
“Saving your life.”
Alastor distinctly remembered wishing Lucifer had chosen not to.
Then something changed.
At first it was subtle.
A strange warmth spreading through his body.
His pulse accelerating.
His breathing becoming uneven.
The feeling intensified rapidly.
Far too rapidly.
Cold dread settled in his stomach.
No.
No, no, no.
Not now.
His heat wasn’t due for another seven years.
It only happened once every decade.
He tracked it meticulously.
Prepared for it years in advance.
The timing was never wrong.
Never.
Yet there was no mistaking the signs.
The healing magic had triggered it.
The massive surge of power had awakened something that should have remained dormant.
Something he despised.
Something he had spent decades enduring in complete isolation.
Panic had followed.
Real panic.
The kind he rarely experienced.
The kind he hated.
Because there was nowhere to run.
Nowhere to hide.
And unfortunately the only other person present was Lucifer.
The memory blurred after that.
A haze of instincts, overwhelming pheromones, impaired judgment, and circumstances neither of them had anticipated.
Neither of them had been thinking clearly.
Neither of them had been acting like themselves.
And when the heat finally ended, both of them wanted only one thing.
To forget.
The conversation afterward remained painfully clear.
No threats.
No bargains.
No dramatic confrontation.
Just mutual agreement.
This had been a mistake.
A consequence of unusual circumstances.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
It would never be discussed again.
No one would ever know.
The entire incident would be buried and forgotten.
At the time, Alastor had been more than happy to agree.
Unfortunately, fate apparently possessed a rather twisted sense of humor.
Their agreement echoed in his mind.
Never speak of it again.
Pretend it never happened.
Move on.
Alastor had every intention of doing exactly that.
Until now.
Because apparently Hell itself had decided that wasn’t an option.
A strained laugh escaped him.
Then another.
Soon he was laughing so hard tears gathered in the corners of his eyes.
The sound was sharp.
Almost hysterical.
Of course.
Of course this would happen to him.
The asexual demon who wanted nothing to do with romance, relationships, or sex.
The sinner who should have been completely incapable of reproducing.
The Radio Demon.
One of the most feared overlords in Hell.
Pregnant.
Not only pregnant.
Pregnant with Lucifer Morningstar’s children.
His laughter died abruptly.
The silence that followed felt deafening.
Slowly, Alastor looked down.
His hand remained spread across the small swell beneath his shirt.
Nine weeks.
Perhaps slightly more.
The bump was still small enough to hide beneath tailored clothing.
Most people would assume he had gained a little weight.
No one would suspect the truth.
Not yet.
But it would not stay that way.
Not with four heartbeats.
Not with a litter.
His stomach dropped.
For the first time since arriving in Hell, genuine panic threatened to take hold.
Because secrets could only remain hidden for so long.
And this one was growing larger every single day.