Can we have a continuation from when Arthur finds out the reader is pregnant please? I loved it
AN: I’m sorry. Did I hear you beg me for more? >D–When he comes home you notice he’s tired. There are crinkled lines next to his eyes and there is a fresh bruise to his temple. Of course, with the make-up on, no one will hardly notice. But without the make-up his bruise is vulnerable on display. “Did someone hit you?” You ask, gently brushing a strand of hair out of his face.
Arthur’s eyes seek yours and he forces a smile. You can see it’s a forced one. Why does he always try so hard to please you and to pacify your worried feelings? It’s not his job to make you feel at ease all the time. It’s his job to be honest with you.
“I fell,” is his excuse, but you just know someone must have beaten him up. Perhaps a passer-by, perhaps a colleague. You silently vouch to find out sooner rather than later.
“I made you some dinner,” you say and he silently mutters a thank you. But instead of moving to the table he remains where he is, his hand fluttering to your protruding stomach.
His fingers are warm upon your clad skin, as if his fingertips can burn through the layers of cloth and empower the child that’s deep within.
You close your eyes and relish in the feel.
“I’m not hungry,” he mutters.
“Of course you’re not,” you can’t help but sound a bit bitter about it. Ever since the two of you got together and you moved into the cramped little house he shared with his mother, you had tried to get him to eat. A quest which seemed a hopeless one. He was still as frail and thin looking as before. You sometimes wondered if you did something wrong. You cooked the tastiest and loveliest things. Yet he would hardly have a bite. Did he not appreciate the effort?
You squeezed your eyes shut and took a deep breath, noticing how your hands had turned to fists. He must have noticed it too because he’s now shushing you. One hand remains lightly upon your belly while the other runs freely through your hair and then gently strokes past your cheek. The gesture makes you whimper.
“No need to get upset,” you hear him whisper in that sweet dark voice of his. “Think of the baby. Our baby.”
Oh, and the way he stressed that it’s a baby of you both, it sends pleasant tingling up your spine. You squeeze your thighs together. How does he do this to you? Each and every time?
You hum a short apology to which he answers there’s no need to apologise for anything. “If anything, I should be the one apologising to you. I know you worked hard to make me a special treat.” As he says it, he makes sure to lock eyes with you so that you can see he is serious. His voice is a little sterner, his dark brows furrow, and on no account does he allow you to break eye-contact with him.
You feel yourself grow weak, like pudding. You melt underneath his gaze and into his hands. Now his second hand is back to join the one on your tummy again and he closes his eyes. A pleased hum escapes his throat like a low rumble.
“I can’t wait till we are three,” he mutters. And you know he means till the moment the child is out and he can actually hold the little one.
“Technically,” you reply with a giggle while you press his hands even firmer against the baby bump. “We are three already.”
You had not meant three to be his mum, who called for the two of you from out of her bedroom.