Pregnancy with Arthur Frederick
Arthur Frederick x reader - fluff, angst
a/n - a collection of drabbles/senarios about pregnancy that have accumulated in my mind, layed out in chronilogical order ofc.
also idk if u guys can tell but I WILL be naming my potential future daughter anjali lol, such a sweet name
masterlist
c/w - pregnancy, established relationship, insecurity, gestational diabetes, labour description
I. two pink lines
The thing was, you'd been trying not to think about it.
Four days late wasn't unusual. Your cycle had been off before — stress, a bad week of sleep, that one month you ate nothing but pasta for a fortnight and your body just decided to protest. Four days was nothing. Four days was barely a blip.
But then it was eight days, and you told yourself it was just a longer cycle.
And then it was twelve, and you started sleeping weird.
And now it was fourteen days, and you were standing in the middle of Boots on a while Arthur was filming the podcast.
You were holding two different pregnancy tests, comparing their little diagrams on the back of the boxes with probably more focus than you'd ever given anything in your entire academic career.
You bought both.
You did them in the Boots bathroom because you genuinely could not wait until you got home. The little tiled room smelled like hand soap and there was a motivational quote on the wall about blooming where you're planted that felt deeply appropriate.
You sat on the closed lid of the toilet, tests balanced on the edge of the sink, and waited.
Three minutes had never felt so long in your life.
When you looked, both of them showed the same thing.
Pregnant.
You just stared at it.
Your hand came up to your mouth without you really deciding to move it.
Your eyes went blurry.
Pregnant.
You'd been trying for a few months. You knew it was possible. You wanted this, both of you had.
You had the conversation and bought the folic acid and everything, but somehow knowing it was possible and then actually seeing it were two completely different things.
Also you were absolutely crying in a Boots toilet on a Wednesday.
You pressed the backs of your hands to your cheeks. Took a breath.
Then you smiled so hard your face hurt.
II. reveal
You didn't tell Arthur.
Not that day, not the next. You meant to — you planned to, lying in bed that night while he scrolled on his phone beside you, his shoulder warm against yours.
The words sat right at the back of your throat.
'Arthur, I'm pregnant. Arthur, we're having a baby. Arthur, those tests I did in a Boots toilet this afternoon both said yes.'
But every time you opened your mouth, something stopped you.
Not fear, exactly.
More like — you wanted to sit with it for a second. Hold it for yourself, just briefly. This enormous, quietly extraordinary thing that was just yours for a little while.
So you kept it.
For a week, you kept it.
What you didn't know was that Arthur already knew.
Or strongly suspected, anyway — which to Arthur was basically the same thing.
It had started with the belly thing. You kept touching your stomach. Not in any obvious way, just absently, the flat of your palm pressed there when you were watching telly, or your fingers curling around your waist when you stood in the kitchen. He noticed.
Then there was the nausea. You'd gone a bit green one morning and quietly said you weren't hungry and disappeared back upstairs.
He stood in the kitchen holding the plate of noodles he made you and thought about it for a long time.
And then — and this was the one that had really done it — you hadn't mentioned needing more pads.
He wasn't trying to track that. It wasn't weird, it had just become something he was aware of, the same way he was aware of when you were running low on your shampoo or when you'd had a hard week and needed a takeaway instead of cooking.
He paid attention to you. That was all. And the absence of that particular addition to the shopping list was quite strange.
He hadn't said anything. He was waiting for you to be ready.
It was a Sunday evening when you finally said it.
You'd made dinner — pasta, because it was the only thing your stomach was reliably okay with lately — and you sat across from each other at the kitchen table.
Arthur had been talking about something Isaac said on the podcast and then trailed off because you'd gone quiet.
"You alright?" he asked.
"Yeah." You pushed a piece of pasta around your plate. "Actually — no. I mean, yes. I'm fine. I just need to tell you something."
He put his fork down.
"Okay," he said, and his voice was very calm. The careful kind of calm that meant he was paying close attention.
You looked up at him. Your heart was going absolutely stupid fast. "So, um." You laughed a little, which wasn't what you'd planned. "I've sort of known for a week, which I know, I'm sorry, I just needed a minute—"
"You're pregnant," Arthur said.
You blinked. "I— what?"
"You're pregnant?" He said it the same way. Steady. Like he'd been sitting with it too.
"How did you—" You pointed at him, slightly outraged. "Arthur. How."
"The belly thing." He gestured vaguely at where your hand had just been, resting on your stomach without you noticing. "And you were nauseous last week. And you didn't ask me to by pads."
"You noticed that?"
"I notice everything." He shrugged, but his eyes were very bright. "I wasn't going to say anything. I was waiting for you."
You stared at him. Your vision had gone blurry again.
"So," he said softly. "Are you?"
"Yeah," you whispered. "I am."
The smile that broke across his face then was the kind you didn't see all the time — wide and unguarded and a little bit overwhelmed, the kind he couldn't have controlled if he'd tried.
He was out of his chair before you'd finished the word, and then his arms were around you and his face was in your hair and he was just holding you tight. You pressed your face into his shoulder and finally let yourself cry properly.
"I knew it," he murmured into your hair. His voice wasn't entirely steady. "I knew it, I knew it."
"You could've said something," you said, half-laughing, half-crying.
"I was being respectful."
"You were being smug."
"I was being both." He pulled back just enough to look at you, hands cradling your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks. His eyes were glassy.
III. appointments
The first appointment was a lot of information delivered by a very nice GP who clearly gave this talk multiple times a day.
You sat side by side on the little chairs in her office while she walked you through what came next — blood tests, booking appointments with the midwife, the dating scan, what to expect, what to avoid, the list of foods that were suddenly banned which meant no pub crawls.
Arthur had brought a notepad and he was writing things down.
The GP had glanced at it with a small approving smile and said that's very thorough and you'd had to look at the ceiling to compose yourself because you loved him so much it was actually ridiculous.
"Do you have any questions?" she asked at the end.
Arthur looked at his notepad. He had many bullet points.
You did not have a notepad. You had one question, which was whether the no soft cheese rule was truly non-negotiable or more of a guideline.
(It was non-negotiable. You were devastated.)
The twelve-week scan was a different thing entirely.
You were nervous in a way you hadn't quite expected — not about anything being wrong — just about the reality of it suddenly becoming very, very real.
Arthur held your hand in the waiting room. His thumb was moving back and forth against your knuckles, steady as a metronome, and you weren't sure if he was doing it for you or for him or both.
"You're going to cry," you told him.
"I'm not going to cry."
"Arthur."
"I might cry a little."
"This is mental isn't it?" you said with a huge grin.
Arthur laughed at how strange you were being, "Yes it is."
The sonographer was warm and professional, she put the cold gel on your stomach and then started the actual process of scanning.
There it was — this small, unmistakable shape on the screen, the flutter of a heartbeat, a whole tiny person (although it was hard to make the shape out) already stubbornly in existence.
You heard Arthur exhale very slowly.
"There's the heartbeat," the sonographer said, and she angled the screen slightly so you could both see. "Looking good."
Arthur was gripping your hand hard enough that you could feel every individual finger. "That's—" He stopped. Cleared his throat. "That's the baby."
"That is indeed the baby," the sonographer confirmed, professionally.
You looked at him. His jaw was clenching very hard like he was trying to stay composed, and his eyes were absolutely glistening.
"You're crying," you said.
"I have something in my eye."
"Arthur, we're in a hospital."
"They have dust here too, you know."
You laughed, even with your own eyes watering, and turned back to the screen, and for a moment neither of you said anything — just looked at this small, extraordinary, impossible thing you'd somehow made together.
"That's really mental," Arthur said, quietly. Not embarrassed by it. Just honest.
"Yeah," you agreed.
The sonographer smiled, "I see you're both very happy."
You replied trying not to laugh hysterically at just how amazing this predicament was, "Maybe a bit."
III. baby bump
By five months, you were unmistakably, beautifully (especially in Arthur's eyes) showing.
You'd gone through a phase of not quite believing it when you looked in the mirror — the bump was there but your brain kept lagging behind the physical reality.
But now it was there. Round and present and impossible to ignore, and Arthur treated it like it was the most precious thing he'd ever seen, which, in hindsight, was adorable but also occasionally infuriating because it meant he wouldn't let you do anything.
"I'm getting a glass of water," you said.
"Sit down, I'll get it."
"Arthur, it is a glass of water."
"Don't worry, I've got it." He chirped walking to the kitchen.
"I am five months pregnant, not made of glass—"
"I don't want you to strain yourself baby."
You rolled your eyes whilst trying to prevent a smile from breaking through and sat down. He got you the water with crushed ice in it because he knew you liked to chew it. You took it with the most exasperated expression you could manage but deep down the gesture, along with all the other ones, made you melt.
The nights were quite different though.
In the mornings Arthur was attentive in an occasionally slightly overbearing way, and during the day he was always hovering at a slight distance, and that was all sweet and honestly quite funny.
But in the nights, with the lamp off and the room dark and warm, he was so incredibly soft..
He had this thing he did.
When he thought you were asleep, he'd shift down a little, and he'd press a kiss to the curve of your bump, quiet and gentle, and he'd talk to the baby in this low murmur that you could only half make out — telling them about his day, or asking them questions they obviously couldn't answer, or just saying I can't wait to meet you.
You'd never told him you were often still awake for this.
You figured it was his thing, and you didn't want to make him self-conscious about it. So you lay there with your eyes closed and listened to him tell your unborn baby about the football, or about something funny Isaac had said.
It made you feel so full of warm.
One night he was mid-sentence about a game of chess he played when you couldn't help it.
"Arthur," you said.
His head stuck up immediately to look at you, he had a very embarrassed expression on himself. "Oh um — I thought you were asleep."
"I know."
He paused trying hide his bashful smile and shock. "How long have you been awake for these?"
"A while," you admitted.
He was quiet for a second. Then he just kissed your bump again, unbothered, and said to your stomach, "your mum's been eavesdropping on us".
There was one afternoon, though, that was harder.
You had been looking at photos from before — not intentionally, you were just scrolling back through your camera roll to find something else and ended up staring at yourself from six months ago, which felt like a different lifetime. Your body was different now. Bigger, slower, rounder, covered in tiger stretch mark.
You knew it was for a reason and that it would happen. You knew that. But it didn't always stop the small mean voice that crept in sometimes.
Arthur found you in the bathroom, leaning on the sink, not crying exactly but not not-crying either.
He didn't ask what was wrong immediately. He just came up behind you, put his hands on your shoulders, and looked at you in the mirror.
"Hey pwincess," he said with a discord mod voice.
"I'm fine." you said with a slight giggle. He knew how to crack you (in more ways than one)
"Pwincess pwease —."
"I just—" You exhaled. "I don't look like me anymore."
Arthur's hands moved from your shoulders to your waist, arms wrapping around you from behind.
"You look like you," he said simply. "You look like you, and you look like someone who's growing a baby, and I think you look incredible." He said it without inflection, like it was just a fact he was reporting. "And I know that's not always enough to shut the voice up. But it's what I actually think."
You leaned back into him.
"The voice is annoying," you said.
"Tell it to get out of your bathroom," he said. "This is a nice bathroom."
You laughed despite yourself, and he kissed the top of your head, and you stayed there for a while until it passed.
V. twenty-four weeks
The gestational diabetes diagnosis came on a Tuesday afternoon, after what was supposed to be a routine appointment.
The consultant explained everything sweetly and calmly, how pregnancy hormones could make your body less responsive to insulin, how it wasn’t your fault, how common it was, how most people managed it through diet, exercise, and monitoring, and how some people needed medication later depending on their numbers. She talked about fasting glucose, post-meal readings, carbohydrate distribution, portion sizes, protein and fibre, extra scans, and the possibility of induction if the baby grew too large.
You sat there nodding which was easier than admitting your brain had stopped fully processing words around minute three.
—
On the drive home, Arthur kept one hand on the steering wheel and the other holding your hand.
At a red light, he squeezed your hand once.
“Hey,” he said quietly. “We’re okay.”
You nodded without looking at him. “I know, it's just — I, I don't know.”
—
The first week was the hardest.
Not because anything dramatic happened — your blood sugar wasn’t wildly uncontrolled, nobody was rushing you to hospital, the baby was fine — but because the diagnosis was always on your mind.
You found yourself standing in supermarket aisles reading nutrition labels with concentration. Bread that had never mattered before suddenly mattered. Rice mattered. Fruit mattered. Portion sizes mattered.
At home, a small glucose monitor kit took up permanent residence on the kitchen counter. Four times a day you had to wash your hands, prick your finger, squeeze out a drop of blood, feed it to the strip, and wait for a number that seemed capable of dictating your mood for the next hour.
Some readings were fine. Some were frustratingly high for reasons you couldn’t always identify. Those were the worst ones — the meals that seemed reasonable, the walk you’d taken afterwards, the number that still came back above target.
One evening after dinner, you sat at the kitchen table staring at the monitor for so long that the screen timed out twice. Arthur openedthe front door after a whole day of filming with the sidemen, carrying a bag of shopping.
“You haven’t tested yet,” he said softly.
You exhaled sharply. “I know.”
He set the bag down and pulled out the chair beside you. “Bad day?”
“I’m tired of thinking about it.” You rubbed at your eyes. “It’s like my brain never gets a break., I just want to eat some bloody pudding”
Arthur was quiet for a moment, then said, “You’re allowed to hate it.”
You looked at him. “It feels dramatic to hate finger pricks.”
“I don’t think it’s the finger pricks,” he said. “I think it’s the constantness.”
“Yes,” you said, your voice louder than you intended. “Exactly.”
Arthur reached for your hand. “You’re carrying our baby and managing a medical condition at the same time. I know how horrible things are right now, I', here whenever you need me okay?"
You laughed weakly. “You sound like AI.”
“Bloody hell.”
That earned a real smile.
Eventually he took the monitor from your hand and set it gently on the table. “Want me to sit with you while you do it?”
“You always sit with me.”
“I know.”
You pulled back enough to look at him. “You don’t have to.”
“I know that too.”
—
A week later, a package arrived. You opened it and stared at the contents in disbelief.
“Arthur.”
He looked up from the sofa. “Hmm?”
“What is this?”
“A case.”
“For what?”
“For your monitor kit.”
The depressing beige NHS pouch had been replaced with a really cute, embroidered bag. It had compartments for strips and lancets and alcohol wipes. It was very whimsical.
You laughed helplessly. “This is ridiculous.”
“You hated the old one.”
“It was functional.”
“You described it as shit coloured”
—
The walks started after the midwife mentioned that gentle movement after meals could help with blood sugar control. Arthur latched onto the suggestion immediately.
The first time he proposed an evening walk, you stared at him in disbelief.
“It’s seven-thirty.”
“Yeah.”
“It’s raining.”
“It’s only drizzling.”
“I’m pregnant.”
“Wait who is the father...”
You narrowed your eyes. “You’re enjoying this.”
“A little.”
You rolled your eyes jokingly as you stood up. “Such a bastard.”
He laughed, grabbed your coat from the hook, and held it open for you. “Come on. Twenty minutes. Then we can come home and complain about the weather together.”
Somehow, it became one of the best part of your days.
Dinner, then coats, then the two of you moving slowly through quiet streets while the sky darkened around you. Sometimes you talked about names or nursery furniture or what colour the baby’s eyes might be. Sometimes you complained about glucose readings or swollen ankles or strangers who insisted on giving pregnancy advice in supermarkets. Sometimes you walked in comfortable silence while Arthur kept one hand at your waist.
VI. eight months
The beach was Arthur's idea.
He'd been planning it for about two weeks.
He checked the forecast, found a stretch of coast that wouldn't be too busy, and packed a couple bags with meticulous thoroughness.
"It's just a beach trip," you'd said, as you sat on the bed and watched his shirtless frame move around the room like a madman looking for another bottle of sunscreen.
"It's very important," he said.
"Would have prefered a trip to skeggy butlins mate." You said deadpan.
Arthur laughed at that, but then he went back into robot mode again: "You need snacks that won't spike your levels, you need somewhere to sit that isn't on the ground because you said your hips have been bad, there's a foam mat in the bag, there are two types of sunscreen, I just need to find the other one—"
"Arthur."
"Two types," he repeated, and folded a towel.
It was a good day.
The light was low and golden and the beach wasn't empty but wasn't crowded either. You sat on the mat with your feet in the sand, bump settled and present in front of you, sunglasses on.
Arthur sat beside you occasionally handing you things from the bag.
"Stop fussing Arthur, I'm more relaxed than you are," you said, grinning at his sweetness.
"I'm not fussing. Do you want the crackers?"
"I just had crackers."
"Different crackers."
"Arthur—" But you were laughing, and he was grinning, and you took the different crackers.
After splashing about in the sea and making stupid sandcastles you returned to the spot with your belongings.
He lay down on his side, head propped on one hand, and very naturally placed his other hand against the side of your bump. Just resting there.
The baby moved.
You both felt it — the unmistakable roll of a small person adjusting position. It still made your breath hitch.
"There she is," Arthur said softly, without thinking, and then caught himself. You were keeping the gender a surprise. "Or he. There they are."
"Nice recovery," you said.
"I don't know why I said that, I genuinely don't know what we're having."
"Sure."
"I don't." He looked slightly panicked. "Do you know? Did you sneak a look at the results and not tell me—"
"I don't know!" You held your hands up. "I swear!"
"Okay. Good. We don't know. We're in agreement."
"We're in agreement."
He settled back down, hand still against your bump. "Come on then," he said, to your stomach. "Move again. Let's see it."
The baby obliged, and Arthur's whole face went soft again.
You took a photo of him like that. Lying on his side, one hand on your bump, looking at you with the sea behind him.
Later, walking back to the car at a pace that was entirely dictated by your comfort, which Arthur matched without comment, he had one arm looped through yours and was talking about something, some anecdote from filming, and midway through it he stopped and said, "You're happy, right?"
You looked at him. "What?"
"Right now. Today. You're — it's been good?"
"Arthur, it's been genuinely lovely."
He nodded, absorbing this. "Good."
"Are you okay?"
"Yeah." He said it simply. "I just — I want it to be good for you. I know the last couple months have been a lot."
You stopped walking. He stopped with you, automatically.
You reached up and put your hand on his face, and he leaned into it slightly, and you said, "You've made it good."
He covered your hand with his for a second. Then he kissed your palm, and started walking again, you went with him.
VII. early
Just a week left till the birth.
That was the thing you kept thinking about lately, as you sat on the floor of the hallway with your back against the wall and your phone in your hand and your other hand pressed to your stomach.
Then some horrid cramps hit.
You were supposed to have another week. It was too early. This was probably nothing. This was almost certainly Braxton Hicks, which you'd had before and which were uncomfortable but manageable.
You'd been fine all morning. Arthur had left at half ten to film a football challenge for Chris — with Bach and George and Arthur Hill, a full day thing.
He kissed you goodbye and told you to call him if you needed anything so you said "I'm pregnant, not helpless"
He said "noted, call me if you need anything okay?" — you pushed him out the door.
The first contraction had come at about half twelve.
You'd timed it.
The second came twenty minutes later.
Still probably Braxton Hicks. Your body had been practising. That was a thing.
By the third, an hour in, you were on the floor of the hallway because it had hit you mid-walk and you'd just sat down.
You timed the next three.
Regular. Getting closer.
It was happening.
You got your shoes — though it took an embarrassingly long time, bending that far wasn't really an option anymore, you had to sort of approach the problem from the side.
You got your hospital bag from the bottom of the stairs where it had been sitting for three weeks, and you got the car keys and called Arthur.
He picked up on the second ring.
"Hey—"
"So," you said, and you were going for casual but your voice was giving it away. "I think this might be it."
Three seconds of silence.
"What."
"I think I'm in labour." You paused as another contraction started building, and you breathed through it, and in the background you could hear something — voices, the echo of a large space. "I'm timing the contractions, they're regular, I've got the bag—"
"Stay there." His voice had gone very focused. "I'm coming to drive you. Stay there, don't move, I'll be there in twenty—"
"Arthur, I was literally about to drive myself, it's fine, I can probably get through—"
"No. No, absolutely not. Stay there."
In the background you heard someone — Bach, you thought — say "Arthur what's happening?"
"She's in labour," Arthur said, clearly not to you.
And then there was a lot of noise from the background, all at once, a chorus of overlapping male voices that you could only partially make out — "oh my god, is she alright?", "Arthur go", "mate get out of here—"
"I'm coming," Arthur said, back to you. "Are you okay? How far apart?"
"About eight minutes—"
"Eight minutes?—"
"That's still time, it's fine—"
"You sound like you're in pain."
"I'm in labour, Arthur, that is generally the thing that—" You stopped. Another one. Coming faster than eight minutes.
You pressed your hand flat against the wall and worked through it, and you heard Arthur on the other end go very quiet, just listening.
When it passed, you exhaled slowly.
"Okay," Arthur said, and his voice was very careful. "That sounded close together."
"It's fine," you said, less convincingly than before. "I was going to drive—"
"You are not driving yourself to the hospital, please, I am begging you—"
"Arthur—"
"Please. I will be there so fast, just sit by the door—"
From the background: "Arthur for the love of god, GO, we're not filming anything!"
And then Arthur Hill's voice, very clearly: "Arthur, we love you both, get in the car!"
And George: "Good luck reader!! Arthur MOVE—"
"I have to go," Arthur said. "I will be there in twenty minutes. Sit by the door. Please."
"Okay," you said. "Okay, I'll—okay."
You ended up sitting exactly where you'd been before, back against the wall, bag beside you, slightly wet-eyed from the last contraction and also possibly from just the weight of the fact that this was actually happening.
Arthur was coming. You were going to the hospital. There was a whole human being on the way out of you.
You heard the car before you saw the lights through the glass panel of the front door.
Arthur was through the door in approximately four seconds, crouching down in front of you before you'd even fully registered he was there, both hands on your face, eyes doing a rapid check of you from top to bottom.
"Hi," he said.
"Hi," you said, slightly tearfully.
"Can you walk to the car?"
"Yeah—"
"Okay, arm around me. We're going."
He got you up and out and into the passenger seat, and the hospital bag went in the back, and he got in and drove, one hand on the wheel and one hand firmly in yours, and you did not let go of it once.
VIII. Anjali
There was no way to make it not long. You knew that going in.
But there was a difference between knowing it and living it.
knowing this will be intense and lying in a hospital bed with Arthur's hand in yours, crushing it with a grip that he took completely without comment, and saying at least three times that you wanted it to be over.
"I know," he said, every time. "You're doing so well."
"Stop saying I'm doing well—"
"You are."
"It doesn't feel like—" You broke off through another contraction screaming in pain.
The pain was searing, tears rolling down your strained face again and again as your cried through it.
And then she was born.
One moment she wasn't there, and then she was crying
"It's a girl," the midwife said.
You looked at Arthur, your face red and tear stained, his face also tear stained.
He was looking at her, being placed on your chest — this small, red-faced, aggressive little person.
Tears were running without him making any move to stop them, jaw working slightly.
"Hi," he said. His voice broke on it. Just that one syllable.
She made a small sound against your chest.
You pressed your lips to the top of her head and kept them there for a long time.
"Anjali," you said softly. You'd both known the name since about week twenty but you'd never said it out loud with her actually there, and now it was real.
Arthur reached out and touched her hand — her impossibly small hand, fingers already fisted — and she wrapped them around his finger with crazy grip.
His whole face crumpled, just briefly.
"Hi, Anjali," he said. "We've been waiting for you."
You looked at him, and at her, and at the two of them together — his finger in her fist, her face against your chest.
"She's got your nose," you said.
Arthur laughed through his tears. "She does not."
"She absolutely does."
"She's been alive for four minutes, you cannot tell whose nose—"
"Arthur." You looked at him. "She has your nose."
He looked at Anjali. He looked at you.
"Yeah," he said softly. "Maybe a bit."
a/n - EEEEEK guys this shit made me giddy
like and comments and reblogs are very appreciated <3 lmk if u wanna be on the taglist
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