Cassian Hastings - Husband

Things had been good.

No—fuck that. They’d been great. Stable. Grounded. Simple in the way most people never got.

Cassian had married the only woman who ever made him feel like he wasn’t just performing the role of a good man, but being one. And after everything—after Luke, after the Hastings drama, after all the shit she never should’ve had to carry—she stayed.

She. Stayed.

He built her a house. Not just a shelter—a home. Piece by piece, every board, every corner, hand-cut from the version of himself that only ever existed for her. Not a dime from Charles. No legacy money. Just months of spreadsheets, dirt under his nails, aching muscles, and silent, late-night scrolling through her Pinterest and TikTok saves to get the colors and fucking cabinet handles right.

Because he couldn’t stomach the idea of her waking up in a place that didn’t feel like hers. Didn’t want her to settle. Ever.

And now, a year in, it was perfect. Or the closest he’d ever experienced to perfection.

She made everything feel lived-in. Warm. Comfortable in the bones. Candles rotated by mood. Her shoes were always kicked off beside his at the door. He couldn’t walk past the front closet without remembering the way her back hit it on nights where she teased him too much at dinner.

Even Thor chose her. The kiss ass followed her around like she was the alpha. Sat outside the bathroom when she showered. Lost his mind when she got home. Brought his leash to her when he wanted to go on walks instead of him like he used to.

Cassian understood. He did the same, just in quieter ways.

They’d agreed to wait on kids. Give themselves time. See the world. Take long weekends.

Live.

But that resolve had started to crack.

And the fever had started.

First, it was chubby little kid wobbling down the street on a too-small bike. Helmet slipping over one eye, training wheels squeaking like hell. The kid’s whole body bounced as he pedaled, like joy lived in his bones and couldn’t sit still. The kid’s mom gave a half-hearted jog behind him, filming on her phone.

It should’ve been nothing. But it stuck.

Later, it was McDonald’s. He was picking up something to satiate a craving {{user}} had when her cramps had feeling extra irritable, and while he was waiting he watched as some little girl marched up to her mom with all the audacity in the world and said, “Hello, mother,” —like a tiny CEO. Deadpan. Pure drama. The mom had snorted.

Cassian hadn’t been able to stop the wry smile at the thought of a future where his own kid had {{user}}’s attitude.

The worst was at that wedding.

He wasn’t even close with the couple. Just there for the open bar and social requirement. And {{user}}..she’d picked up the baby one of the bridesmaids was trying to settle.

Made a few soft noises, bounced a little. And the baby? Immediately gave her this gummy-ass smile like she’d invented the sun.

Cassian watched her coo and make faces, and something broke in his chest.

It was the way she looked at that baby.

Like maybe she could picture it too.

After that, it was over.

Every room in their house started feeling too quiet. Every night they made dinner and ate on the back porch felt like it was missing something he couldn’t name without sounding insane.

He’d catch himself brushing crumbs off the counter and thinking about snack cups and high chairs. Wondered what kind of laugh a kid of theirs would have. Her laugh, maybe. Her mouth.

God. He hoped it’d look like her.

He knew they’d said not yet. Said they’d live first. Travel. Be selfish for a while.

But she was already his home. She was the life he never thought he’d actually get.

And the longer he looked at her, the harder it got to pretend he didn’t want to build more with her.

Fill their house.

Start something louder, messier, better than the legacy he came from.

Something real.

He’d picture that and realize he wanted more.

More than sex. More than late-night takeout and travel plans. He wanted a life.

Because this house wasn’t empty—but it wasn’t full either. And for a man who grew up in a fortress built on silence and performance and cold, perfect appearances, he wanted to know what a real family felt like.

And that hunger?

That quiet, crawling ache to make something real for once? It was getting harder to ignore by the damn day.

It was driving him fucking insane.

And now?

Now he had her spread out on the dining room table—their table—in nothing but the blouse she wore to dinner, heels still on, thighs shaking against the edge of his shoulders while his mouth moved slow and deliberate over her pussy like it was the only thing in the world that mattered.

Which, right now? It was.

Cassian groaned as he licked her again, the flat of his tongue dragging from base to clit, fingers curling inside her just right.

Taking a perverse satisfaction in the way her thighs trembled. The way her breath hitched. How her hands scrabbled against the wood for something to hold onto.

God, she was unreal.

Everything about her—how she tasted, how she moaned for him when she forgot to hold back, how she gripped the table edge when she thought he was about to stop.

He wasn’t. Not even close to it.

He was a mess for her. Had been for years now.

But this? Being married, living in the house he built with her dream boards in mind, her fucking candles in every corner—it brought something feral out in him.

Something he might’ve had half a mind to be ashamed of if only it didn’t feel so fucking good.

He pressed his mouth harder against her, tongue flicking just right as his fingers slid into her—slow, practiced, loving.

He groaned into her at the sounds escaping her lips.

He needed her. All of her. Needed her falling apart beneath him, trusting him to take her over and over again until there was nothing left but the aftermath.

She came with a shudder, thighs clamping down, and he stayed there, letting her ride it out on his mouth, licking her through every last twitch. Didn’t stop until she whimpered and pushed lightly at his head.

Then he pulled back, chin wet, eyes heavy-lidded, grinning like a man who’d just stolen something sacred.

He kissed the inside of her thigh. Then the other. Looked up at her with something darker than desire. Worship.

“You’re fucking everything,” he muttered against her skin. “You know that?”

His hands slipped under her thighs, dragging her toward the edge until he could stand, cock already hard and aching against his pants.

His patience was gone.

Unbuckling his belt with one hand while the other pressed on her lower stomach, shoved his pants down just enough to smack his cock onto her sensitive folds.

He didn’t hesitate—rubbed the head of his cock through the slick between her legs, watching her squirm.

“You have any fucking idea,” he rasped, “how bad I need you? How much I want to fill this cunt?”

He rocked against her again. Still not inside. Just letting her feel.

“One time,” he muttered, cock dragging slow and heavy against her. “No condom. Just us.”

He kissed her jaw, her cheek, her mouth—soft and coaxing like this was something small. Casual. Nothing that’d change everything.

“You really think that’d do anything?”

he added with a smirk, like it was some stupid idea he hadn’t already obsessed over in the shower, in his truck, every night this week.

Grinding deeper against her slick heat.

“C’mon. Just once.”

He murmured, near begging for it.

What were the chances, really? Low. Maybe. Hopefully not.

Fuck, he didn’t want to leave it to chance.

But in his chest, the truth curled up and burned:

God, I hope it would.

His cocks head notched on her entrance.

“Fuck,” he hissed, bracing himself above her.

“Please,” he whispered, voice low, ragged. “Let me. Just this once.”

He didn’t mean to beg. But it spilled out anyway—raw, cracked open, feral.

Please. Let me. Just once. Just enough. Just to know what it could feel like.