Thread by @kaacchaann, Mob Sero owns my ass, but now I'm thinking about mob husbands!Seroroki,, [...]

Mob Sero owns my ass, but now I'm thinking about mob husbands!Seroroki,, and I will be obsessed with this for the next 3-5 days, thanks.

Just imagine them—their marriage starts out as a convenient arrangement for their families, but over a few months, turns into something more.

Sero didn't go very long without someone pretty on his arm. They came and went almost weekly; and he didn't expect the young Todoroki to be any different.

'Marriage' to him, meant a ring and a piece of paper that kept their families from warring; not a commitment to monogamy.

Well. That's exactly what Todoroki—or rather, now Sero-Todoroki Shoto—expected.

See, Shoto wasn't like any of the ditzy people Sero brought around—and trust, they were /many/ in the first few weeks of their marriage.

No, those b/himbos were dazed by the glitz and glamour

of Sero's lifestyle. The money, the lavish lounges, the cars.

Shoto was not.

He'd grown up around that money—laundered and spent nights counting and hiding that money in hollowed out drywall. He knows that that cash is king, because he knows the whose blood spilled for it.

That doesn't mean he doesn't like it. Yes—he enjoyed it just as much as anyone else would. Luxury cars, cashmere and silk the only fabrics ever touching his smooth, pale skin.

But that only made him angrier, watching his cocky husband burn through it like kindling.

So one night he makes himself clear.

"I think you should move out." Shoto said, from his spot in the middle of their giant bed.

Sero had just walked into the bedroom, barely begun shrugging out of his suit jacket. A thick brow tilts up, clearly amused, "Sorry, what?"

Shoto looked up with sharp eyes, through featherlight bangs of red and white, and shifts his knees.

They're barely spread open for a few seconds as he shifts them; but Sero's eyes snap directly between—where Shoto was clearly naked underneath his silk robe.

A smile covers Sero's handsome face, and he clicks off his cufflinks with a soft sigh, "I'm sorry, sweetheart. I've been busy these days, yeah? I didn't mean to leave you all alone."

"Busy." Shoto arches a brow.

There's a flicker a guilt in Sero's eyes, but it quickly drowns

in lust.

"You know the job." Sero kneels on the bed, intent on crawling over to his husband. "Did you miss me, baby?"

"No." Shoto ticks his face to the side.

Another shift closer, "Really?"

"Yes, really."

"Is that why you're being mean?"

Shoto's eyes snap up to meet

his husband's full of a rage Sero doesn't think he's ever seen outside of his occupation.

It has no place in their /bed/, he thinks, but then the ball of Shoto's foot is settling on his collar, keeping him just out of reach.

"Is it being 'mean' to resent a husband that

doesn't value your wedding vows?"

Sero blinks a few times, hardly processing the words—because Shoto's legs are still spread, and this close, he can see the way the soft skin between his thighs shimmers.

Then he spies the black jewel settled neatly beneath his husband's sex.

He tries to make his voice hard—angry at the mere suggestion—but it comes out soft “Who says I don’t value our wedding vows, Sho?”

He tuts, folding his arms across his chest. Sero tries to move closer, but the foot on his chest keeps him where he is. “What was his name?

The pretty blonde one? Monoma—or maybe the Utsushimi girl? It’s hard keeping up these days.”

“Sounds to me like you’re feeling a little jealous, sweetheart.”

“Jealous?” Shoto snaps, sitting up sharply—his foot still in place, so his legs spread even wider. Sero tilts his head,

regarding the prettily trimmed red & white hair and almost-hard cock there. “I shouldn’t have to feel jealous. You are my /husband/.”

“Then don’t.” Sero’s big hand settles on Shoto’s calf, lightly gripping the muscle. “There’s enough of me to go around.”

Shoto slaps his fingers away. “Pig.”

“That’s right, I’m a dirty, dirty man.” He hums, his voice all gravel and the promise of a good time. “Be dirty with me, my pretty little plaything.”

“No.” Shoto snaps.

His leg extends, shoving Sero clean off of the bed.

“You can be dirty by yourself. On the couch.”

“/What?/“ Sero’s head pops up at the edge of the bed, “You’re not serious?”

“I’m very fucking serious.” Shoto sits up on his heels. “You don’t want a husband? Fine. You don’t get husband privileges.”

Sero stands, angrily yanking his shirt off and balling it up. “I’m not sleeping on the fucking couch in my own goddamned house.”

“Yes, you are.” Shoto hums, “Unless you want me to go?”

“Go where?” Sero barks, and when his husband doesn’t answer, “Go
/where/?”

“You need to think about whether you care enough about this marriage to keep you dick in your pants. Until then, I can stay with Izuku.”

“Izuku?!” Hanta balks, then his temper flares, “Your ex, Izuku? /That/ fucking Izuku?”

“Yes, my ex, Izuku.” Shoto arches a brow, “Is that

gonna be an issue?”

“You’re gonna go over to Izuku’s place right now—with that still in you?”

“Maybe there’s enough of me to go around, too.”

Shoto watches with a little smile as his husband straight-up combusts. His jaw falls open, and he

looks away, as though he couldn’t begin to fathom someone talking to him like this.

And maybe he really couldn’t, but it doesn’t matter to Shoto—he’s got the upper hand here, and he’s not going to waver.

Hanta points at him, defeat slinking over his hard, handsome features,

“Get your ass back in that bed. I’ll sleep on the fucking couch.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes! I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“Good.” A mean smile slips across Shoto’s lips, as he watches his husband toss his shirt on the chaise and stalk out to the living room.

Hanta did lay on the couch that night—but sleep never found him.

Instead, he sat in the dark, staring up at the chandelier, listening to the faint buzzing sound coming through the closed door from his bed, and the quiet, desperate moans he was being deprived of.

After that, Sero makes the mistake of thinking his husband's little fit is over.

When he shows up to their work space—a big, lofty brick warehouse—he realizes Shoto isn't in his office.

And he doesn't need to /see/ the empty desk chair to know that. All it takes is a

good look at all his men, who are frantically taking phone calls and rushing around the space, to know that Shoto isn't there.

See, it seemed Shoto was in this for the long haul. The 'husband privileges' he'd gone on about apparently weren't confined to their bed.

And Sero's mistake there is critical—he didn't consider just how integral Shoto was to his operations.

His men usually worked like a well-oiled machine. Money was collected, laundered, and redistributed without fail every day. Millions of dollars moved across Japan's

providences; protection rackets and police men being paid in order to keep business going smoothly.

But it was Shoto who kept it running that way.

So when he's pissed at his husband, and decides not to show up to work; that careful balance of power goes to shit.

Men go unpaid, business goes undone, money goes unmade.

Sero's got his phone pressed to his ear in an instant. The line rings a few times before Shoto's voice greets him.

"What?"

Sero clenches his teeth at his tone. "Why aren't you at the office?"

"Why did you take Monoma shopping when I asked you to be my husband, and not a whore?"

Hanta almost throws the phone across the fucking warehouse. Instead, he takes a deep breath, and tries to steady his voice.

"We're losing money." Is all he manages.

"No, /you're/ losing money." He says, and it sounds like he's in their kitchen, cooking. "Lots of it, if you keeping taking your little friends on shopping sprees."

"Jealousy doesn't fuckin' look on you baby." He says meanly.

Without hesitating Sho coos, "Oh? I think it's my shade."

"When are you gonna be done throwing this tantrum?" He asks, his voice slow like honey, "You know what I think you need? I think you need to be tucked up under me for a while."

Shoto huffs a laugh.

"You do." Sero smirks, turning away from his men. "You just need to be fucked back into your right mind, don't you baby? Should I come home?"

Shoto doesn't answer immediately, almost like he's considering it. "If you're ready to be /my/ husband, I'll be waiting for you."

The image flashes in Sero's head—his husband's solid, soft body, in his stupidly-sexy silk robe, waiting in their bed for him. He can almost feel the way those arms would wrap around him—almost hear the way Shoto's breath would hitch when he kneads at the flesh of his thighs.

He takes a few more steps away from his men's frantic phone calls. Once he's sure he's out of earshot, he clears his throat and whispers, "What have I gotta do to prove it to you, doll?"

Hanta knows his husband is a fairly straight forward man; and he really should have expected a straight-forward answer to his question.

But he didn't; and so "Quit seeing other people" hit him over the head like a ton of bricks.

He'd stood there opening and closing his mouth, trying to come up with an excuse as to why the request was unreasonable—but he couldn't; because it wasn't.

It was a perfectly rational thing to ask for fidelity in a marriage; arranged or otherwise.

It was also alarmingly clear that Shoto would settle for nothing less than that; and the stakes were a compounding million yen daily if Shoto didn't return to his job.

That would have been motivation enough to stir Hanta into compliance, but he realized something else then, too.

He may be just a bit fond of his little husband. And...maybe he didn't want to lose him.

There wasn't anyone else in their line of work willing to go toe-to-toe with him. No one prepared to look him in the eye and question his actions. That was impressive...and attractive.

And so, as much as it burned his little playboy heart, Hanta grumbled his agreement into the phone, and their arrangement was decided.

Hanta would go one month.

One month being just Shoto's husband; no little dates on the side, no taking his toys on shopping sprees.

And at first, he thinks it's gonna be piece of fucking cake.

Because at least he still had Shoto, right? What did he need an entire harem of folks for if he had a husband?

A handsome, long-legged, soft-skinned husband who—if he's being honest—was better in bed than any of his

little friends.

But, a few days into the agreement, Shoto straight-up shuts him down.

He'd run a hard palm up his husband's thigh as they sat pressed against each other on the couch; and Shoto looked up at him as though he'd kicked a puppy.

'Too soon,' he'd thought—and that's alright, he could rub one out in the shower. Pushing the envelope wasn't worth pissing Shoto off again; he would just try again in a few days.

But that advance was curbed, too.

And soon enough, he'd gone two weeks without a touching another person and he was aching for it.

He can't pay attention at work either, because he's too busy glaring at his husband, lost between wanting to get into a screaming match and wanting to bend him over his fucking desk.

It all comes to a head during a meeting.

Sero's at one head of the table, Shoto at the other, with a few of their more trusted men in between. They're going over trafficking routes.

"You've got to pull our men out of Hokkaido." Shoto says with a frown, "The police precinct

there was just completely overhauled—we lost all our contacts on the force. You won't be able to get the guns in and out without being seized."

"I can do that, boss," One of the men says with a smile a touch too fucking wide for Hanta's liking. "When do you want them out?"

"As soon as it's safe? Move them quickly but don't make it obvious. We don't want to tip anyone off." Shoto says with a sigh.

Sero watches, almost hungrily, as his husband's slender fingers skim the side of his neck. It's a passive touch, just ghosting over his skin as he

looks over a piece of paper in front of him.

And Sero must be sexually backed up to all hell, because he's never gotten a stiffy that fast in his entire fucking life.

He wants to put his palm on that pretty pale throat, to choke the soft sounds coming out of it, until it's

just a staccato of breaths in time with the snap of his hips up into Shoto's tight, wet—

"—Hanta?" Shoto arches a brow, still across the table.

Sero blinks a few times, ignoring the little smiles on his men's faces.

He clears his throat, his voice all rough, "Everybody out."

Latest Threads Unrolled: