Chapter Text
You know, it was exceptionally rare to have him here for so long.
Normally he'd stay for a couple hours, tops, but you'd had him over since late afternoon and your usual... activities had been exhausted. All the things you did every time you met had been done: fuck, sleep, fuck some more, eat some dinner perhaps, drink some water, rest, fuck again, sleep. In that order.
It was night already.
So there All Might sat -- the World's Strongest Villain, the Symbol of Discord -- on your couch, with one arm slung over the back, one hand rubbing at a spot where your shirt rode up just enough and the waistband of your shorts did not cover. And there you lay, atop his lap, curled up on your side, your back to him, lightly dozing to the feeling of his hand stroking your hip.
And he was still here, thinking. Waiting. His hand focused particularly on the small sliver of skin that he was ever-so-subtly trying to widen. What to do, oh, what to do...
He grinned wider.
Ah. Of course.
The hand on your hip shook you awake.
"Mmm."
"Get up."
You twisted your torso to look up at him."What?" you asked, the single word slurred by sleep. A few more seconds of wakefulness and you might have been a little more snippy.
"Why don't you dance for me, darling."
You processed his request a while. Groaned. Rolled back over. Mumbled something.
"What was that?"
"No. Don't wanna,"
"Oh? Would you care to repeat that?"
"No." You snuggled back onto his lap.
All Might, in response, pushed you off it.
You yelped in surprise briefly (a sound he particularly enjoyed) before your body made painful contact with your floor. You pulled yourself up into a sitting position, hissing, "Really?"
He bared his trademark grin in reply.
You would not budge, you would not give in. You simply tended to your wounded pride and your bruised knees. It lasted all of eight seconds.
"I'm waiting, dearest."
"...You got such a kick out of it last time. How many did you sit through again? Ten?" you huffed, caving already.
(It shouldn't make you so happy, the idea that Japan's Number One Villain liked watching you dance in your living room. Of course, it was most likely because it had something to do with the particular style of dance.)
He grinned wider, knowing that you never denied him what he wanted for long. "Go on."
"I don't think you even liked the ones I did." From where you sat, you plucked your phone off the coffee table and then got up to turn the speakers on.
(False. He liked them all. He liked looking at you so much and for so long that he sat and watched you for nearly an hour, completely silent.
At first, he was amused at seeing your talent for the first time. Then he had become enraptured. Amazed. Maybe just very much a little turned on. And when you realized he was sitting in the couch right behind you and reacted accordingly, he was amused again, partly exasperated and partly reveling in your clumsiness.)
"Why don't you do something a little... slower," he purred from behind you.
You paused, phone in hand, standing before your speaker system. Half the songs you performed that time were perkier. Faster. Fun. Does that mean he didn't like you bouncing around too much? Wasn't that a little counterproductive considering the kind of dance you do? You spared a brief sidelong glance at him, sitting there all smug and assured that you would do anything he asked of you.
(If he asked you to walk off a cliff, you probably wouldn't do that. But he'd spent enough time around you to know that you'd consider it, for just a half-second. It made him absolutely giddy.)
You considered his suggestion.
Then you pulled up playlists containing some slower-tempo songs.
...Which, really, wouldn't work. The slow songs that had choreography assigned to might bore him to the point of displeasure; some of the other slow songs had movements that had a little ballet mixed in, and you weren't sufficiently warmed up for those.
(Oh, but he would definitely get a kick out of those.)
Hmm... Maybe something not so frenetic. You scrolled through playlists, artists, albums. Something a little slower-tempo, but fun. Something nice, and something that didn't sound like recently-released music (cantankerous old man, commenting on your taste in music "or lack thereof") Maybe something with romantic lyrics --
Oh.
Your fingertip pressed to the screen, halting your quick scroll. You scrolled up a little bit before finding the song you needed.
A classic. Slower-tempo. Fun. Romantic but not overtly so.
Perfect!
"Get over here."
At All Might's command, you stopped whatever you were doing. Your head whipped around to look at him and you saw that he had an arm raised, reaching out to you in a "come hither" gesture. You had to wait a beat or two before placing your phone on top of your sound system and walking over.
(You had to keep some dignity, after all.)
Your tongue was dripping sarcasm when you stood before him. "Yes, honey-poo?"
And yet one side of your mouth was curled into something like a smile. If he tilted his head and squinted, perhaps.
All Might's hand tugged insistently at the hem of your shirt, pulling you in to him. Your first thought was that maybe he wanted to go another round (you certainly would have no objections to that). He pulled you closer still, even when your calves hit the couch. Your knees buckled and you pitched forward as your hand shot out to steady yourself, finding his shoulder.
His mouth was at your ear and you weren't able to stop yourself from shuddering when he whispered, "Almost forgot."
He'd had a fistful of your shirt in hand and he pulled it up, exposing your stomach to the cold air. He'd tugged it from the front, so that it also showed off a little of the front of your sports bra, which was a much darker shade than your white sleep shirt. It had been maddening for him to see only the outline of your chest.
Better.
"Better."
His voice was thick with something you were about to name before he grabbed your hips and spun you around. One last smack to the ass sent you forward, and you found yourself stumbling back to your spot next to the speaker system. Gooseflesh had broken out on your skin; you'd sucked in your gut at the shock of his slap. You loosened up a bit before tapping the song you wanted.
After a beat or two, the first few notes of the song started up, and it was only when you stepped into the middle of your floor space that you realized that you weren't wearing your coin belt. Ah, well. This was an impromptu show, anyway. Knowing him, he probably didn't mind. If he wanted it, he could have, you know, reminded you, when he had you in between his legs, above him, with his knuckles brushing the front of your belly --
"When your baby, leaves you all alone..."
It was fascinating, really.
Watching you that first time, he had been extra careful to not make a sound. He'd come into your home, walked into your living room with the curtains drawn and the lights out. There was music, loud enough for one to hear, but soft enough that it wouldn't disturb anyone trying to sleep.
Having to experience it the way he did felt like being privy to a deep, dark secret.
This? This was something else entirely, and he knew it the moment you moved; he wasn't able to see your face clearly for the dimmed lights and the angle you were facing, but every part of your body was moving like water -- in perfect coordination. Your hips, especially...
"And nobody calls you on the phone,"
Oh, he liked this better.
"Don'tcha feel like cryin'? Don'tcha feel like cryyyin'?"
You bring your arms in front of you, arms as fluid as serpent's bodies, tempting but demure - one of the first things you had learned in belly dance. You cross your wrists, one over the other, before raising an arm high over your head, leaving the other one to sweep over his general direction
As Solomon Burke sultrily sang out, "Well here I am, honey, c'mon," you took it as your cue to curl your fingers into a "come hither" gesture, matching the singer's tone with your movements and the way you looked at the object of your affections.
"Cry to me."
The drums picked up as you spun on the ball of your heel.
"When you're all alone in your lonely room, and there's nothing but the smell of her perfume,"
Arms raised, wrists crossed again, fingers pointed to the ceiling, maneuvering your hips in a dozen different ways, and he followed along with his eyes. Up, down, left, right, in circles, in figure eights, swaying to the music you'd picked out.
"Don'tcha feel like cryin'? Don'tcha feel like cryyyin'? Dont'cha feel like-a cryin'? C'mon, c'mon, cry to me,"
Dropping your hips, first to the right, then to the left, one after the other, until your rear end hit the back of your heel. You bounced back up just as the drums picked up again.
"--Nothin' can be sadder than a glass of wine alone,"
You did half-figure eights with the right hip, then the left, then right again. Two loops drawn in the air with your hip accompanied a step forward, right, left, right, left, until you were in front of him. He'd leaned back in anticipation, ever-present grin on his face.
"Loneliness, loneliness, it's just a waste of time."
Your knee situated itself between his legs. Your hands pressed into his chest, gliding up to his shoulders, then his neck. Your palms detoured before they could reach his jawline. They found the back of the couch and the tip of your nose grazed the apple of his cheek when you whispered, "Dance with me," in his ear. You heard an enthusiastic "Whoa yeah!" in the background, but a sour look was waiting for you when you pulled away.
"Come on,"
"No."
"Please?"
"No."
"Not even--" Your hands grabbed hold of his wrists, dragging his limp, weighty arms to you. You brought them to your breasts, he cupped their sides. You dragged his wrists down your body, his hands followed the perfect curve of your waist, the sweet swell of your hips. "--for this?"
You could probably tell even with the dim lighting, that his brain short circuited the second his hands made contact with your body. When you tugged at his arms again, he got up. But you were too in to the dance to draw more attention to his little daze.
He was too tall. You couldn't sling your arms around without getting lifted at least a foot in the air; you settled your palms as high as you could without compromising your poise. Arms stretched out but loose enough, palms just over his pectorals (You really liked those. Couldn't get enough of them, really. He was always pleased with himself any time your hands found their way onto his chest.)
You spun around. His arms, which had been only lightly wrapped around you, pressed tighter, caging you in. You followed it up by rolling and pressing your ass right over his bulge. He groaned -- point to you! and you took the opportunity to undulate your body a few more times before switching it up.
"Oh, come on, take my hand and baby won'tcha walk with me,"
You spun back around and slung your leg around his hip. And you had the audacity to look him in the eye and laugh at his sudden shock. It melted into heat, the kind that flowed through your veins. You relished it. He pulled you closer, as if you two weren't already about to fuse into a singular being.
If you were looking at this from the outside, you might have laughed at the sight of you trying to dance with him and scale him at the same time. But in the moment, in his arms and pressed up against him, nothing mattered more than seeing his reactions to each and every movement you made.
And the reaction you took most pleasure in, you had been... monitoring quite closely, even as you were stoking it.
You cupped his cheeks. He curled over you. You'd been in this position several times before, but never like this.
He was no longer smiling. And you? So warm, so sweet, all over his front. Smiling. Bright eyes. Dancing for him. Just for him.
This... actually wasn't half bad.
Not that he'll ever hear it coming from your mouth.
He wasn't smiling anymore, but his hands were on you. Large, heavy, and warm, his hands have been on you since he got up off the couch. You're barely even dancing, you're just swaying and grinding and undulating any way you can to get some friction.
This wasn't half bad at all. If you can get him to keep quiet like this, a little dancing is fine. If you can get him to dance with you more, well...
The song ended just then, and you pushed away from him, lightly at first. But he wouldn't let you leave so easily.
"How about an encore?"