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how sweet it is to be loved by you
~How Sweet It Is, Marvin Gaye
Charles had been telling the truth when he’d said he was going North to find a wife.
And he had. He’d found you - had made a friend in you before finding himself horribly and irrevocably in love. Before long you were courting and, not long after, married.
And you were happy. Had a little homestead that was just that side of too big for the two of you. A little paddock and barn for Falmouth and your gelding, Taima living fat and happy with the Wapiti - Rains Fall wrote him often, and apparently she’d been turned into a lesson horse for the younger children and was quite happy with it. A few dairy cattle that you bred to a neighbor’s bull when their milk started to dry up, paid for by any male calves that he’d fatten up and slaughter for their meat.
Though sometimes he missed his old life - the rush, the people, the excitement - he wouldn’t trade his new life for anything. Wouldn’t trade hours spent in the garden with you, bickering good-naturedly over what to plant next, over whether you should add a new cow that you’d seen at the market that day to your little herd, over whether you should get a few goats (“Absolutely not.” “But they’re so useful!” “Mean, too.”) for milk and to help weed the yard, for anything. Loved standing side by side with you, helping prepare dinner, butchering meat and cutting fruits and vegetables, tasting whatever was on offer that day.
(Some days he did miss Pearson’s cooking.)
But the little homestead was starting to feel quiet.
Too big.
There was a room you’d left empty - storage at the moment, though you didn’t have much to store, the both of you preferring only to keep the essentials and some sentimental things. And it called to the both of you every day, a hole in the house that wanted filling.
It wasn’t as though you’d not talked about it before.
Charles had told you, when you’d asked why he’d moved to Canada of all places - his accent gave him away, though he’d swear up and down that you were the one with an accent he had a significant American accent and it was something you two could go in circles about for hours - that he’d wanted a new start, to start a family, and when you’d gotten together you’d known that he wanted children in his future.
And so had you. Not at first - you wanted time just he and you, and he had wanted the same. But it had been an understanding that there would be children in your future.
As it turned out, he’d felt the same. So you’d started trying.
You’d almost sworn that he’d known your body better than you had. All your marriage you’d known children were a possibility - your friends with ‘whoops’ children were evidence that ‘preventative measures’ weren’t as foolproof as one would hope - so you’d thought you’d just… stop with the ‘preventive measures’. Stop pulling out, be together more.
But he’d seemed almost excited in the more ‘technical’ side. Had taken to tracking your cycle, down to the point that you’d found a little journal with notes - marking down when you’d bled, when you batted his hands away from your breasts because ow, sensitive! and when he’d found you different between your legs. It was almost creepy, but you’d found it rather endearing. He was nervous - you could tell, though he wasn’t much one for broadcasting it - treating you just that little bit gentler though he’d never been one to treat you like glass.
You’d never been the most in-tune with your body, so you were happy to leave it to him.
That night he’d practically thrown you down on the bed, that restrained smile of his bright on his face. You’d fought the urge to roll your eyes - you’d seen him looking over his journal throughout the day - crawling up to kneel over you, pinning you down as carefully as he could.
“You ready?” he rumbled, and you knew what he meant - ready for this? ready for me? ready to, maybe, have a baby?
And you were. The thought was terrifying, such a big change. But if you were with Charles, you could do anything.
“Yeah,” you nodded, though your heart raced inside you like a trapped butterfly, and even just the look on his face was worth it, the way it softened before his grin spread just that little bit wider. He reached up, cradling your cheek and pulling you up into a kiss far too soft considering that you could feel his erection nudging into your stomach, before pulling you back and helping you out of your dress with shaky hands.
“So beautiful,” he murmured, cradling your breasts in his hands or, at least, starting to, looking up at your face and biting on a grin - your pupils had blown wide; they hurt a little bit, were definitely sensitive as they always were when you hit the fertile part of your cycle, but he was quickly learning just how to touch them to make it a good sort of sensitive.
You sighed his name, arching your back just a touch and he hummed, leaned down and wrapped his mouth around one, suckling just enough for you to squirm, fingers kneading in the blankets, a pressure starting to build low inside you, pulling off before you could cum. “Dammit Charles,” you hissed but he only chuckled that chuckle low in his throat, the one he knew did things to you, and sat back on his heels.
When you saw him working to pull off his shirt, you sat up so quickly to help it was a miracle you didn’t bash your heads together. You hurried to undo the buttons on his shirt, slipping your hands inside to run them down the planes of his chest before tugging it down his arms - bless him for wearing one that didn’t need to go over his head - and found yourself pulled into a hungry kiss, whining when he had to get off the bed to pull his pants off with a desperation that he rarely displayed.
When you reached down to play with yourself he growled, throwing his pants aside and clambering onto the bed, grabbing you by the calves and yanking you towards him (you squeaked) until your hips slammed into his legs. You couldn’t help but to laugh and, after a moment, he grinned as well, pressing a kiss to your lips. “Good?”
“Yeah,”
and he grasped your thighs, bringing your legs up until your hips rested against his, crossing your ankles behind his back. You reached up, wrapping your arms around his neck, and he lowered his head to kiss along yours, reaching down to press his tip against your slit. You hissed - damn, he was dripping, you could feel it, and he took a moment to run the head along your soaked cunt, slicking himself up for you as he hadn’t prepared you for him - though you were ready for him, wet and open, you’d been intending on ‘surprising’ him in the barn but he’d surprised you instead - before pushing in, bringing his hand up to brace himself beside your head.
You both moaned.
Fuck, you’d prepared yourself, stretched and scissored with your fingers, but there was always the slightest burn because while he wasn’t the longest he was thick, and it burned so good, he pushed in slowly and you would give anything for him to go quick but he refused to, had convinced him to once and he’d torn you, you’d limped for days and he’d felt like a monster.
His forehead dropped to your shoulder and he turned, kissed along your neck before beginning to thrust shallowly once he was sure you were adjusted to him. “My nîwah,” he hummed, “going to make you into a mother,” he nipped at your collarbone before adjusting himself, sitting back on his heels and pulling you into him until you were sitting on the very base of his cock, reaching as deep into you as he could get - or, at least, you’d thought, as he leaned over you until he was a line of heat against your front, pressing kisses to your lips as he pushed your legs up until they bent, knees nearly at your ears and you could feel the strain in your thighs and jesus you hadn’t realized it was possible for him to go so deep inside you.
“Fuck,” you hissed and he stopped, pulling back to check on you,
“You alright?” and you nodded, squeezing your eyes shut as you caught your breath, arousal coiling tight in your lower stomach,
“Yeah just… just a lot.”
And shit, if he didn’t look like the cat that got the cream right then.
He began to fuck you then, long and slow and thoroughly unhurried, kissing you in much the same way. In between kisses he spoke, sounding as if he wasn’t ruining you, fucking you into the mattress, “You’re going to be gorgeous,” another kiss, “carrying our baby,” another, “your stomach swelling, growing all round,” he nipped at your lip, tangled your tongues together, pulled back to catch his breath. His hips stuttered, thrusts becoming just a bit more hurried-you could feel him twitching inside of you. “Any hour of the day,” he nipped at your lip, “I’ll be there. For your cravings,” another nip, “for your mood swings,” a deep kiss, “no matter what, I’ll be there for you my nîwah.”
His hands moved to your waist, clasping tight enough that you’d surely bruise, the throbbing of his cock inside you the only warning you had before he was slamming into you, hips knocking together, and then was giving tiny little aborted thrusts of his hips, painting your walls with his cum. He moaned, long and deep, catching your lips in a desperate kiss, all tongue and teeth, “Nîwah, my beautiful nîwah, my beautiful wife,” before finally stilling, dropping his forehead to your shoulder and reaching down to lazily thumb your clit, knowing just how to drive you to orgasm.
In a heartbeat, you were arching against him, convulsing and gasping and moaning, fingers tangling in and tugging his hair, chanting his name like a mantra. He shuddered, pressing a kiss to your sweaty skin, before sitting back on his heels once you finally went limp beneath him, panting like a winded horse.
You shuddered as he pulled out of you, his eyes locking on the cum that was starting to ooze out around him. Charles huffed a laugh, ghosting one hand over your stomach - already, he could imagine it swelling, growing round with your child - before trailing it down, swiping it through the seed that had begun to trickle down towards the bed and pressing it back into you.