And there I know, you feel it too: the tension shifts. The heat is no longer just heat. It's a shortened distance, sharp words, breath touching. I turn slightly, just enough to see his profile. His eyes are a dark red in the darkness of the cave, they shine like wet stone.
"You ran away too early today."
"I told you not to move."
"I covered for you several times," I say.
"I didn't ask you to do it."
"I don't have to ask your permission to save you from a bullet."
His jaw snaps. "You're the one who can't see me. When I say 'behind,' stay back."
"When you say 'behind,' do you ever look to see if I'm there?"
Silence. Only the crackling fire. His breath on my neck increases. His fingers tighten a millimeter.
"I see you now," he murmurs.
I turn slightly, just my head and one shoulder, keeping my back pressed to his chest with the fire still in front of me. We're not face to face: I feel him behind me, over me, his breath on my neck, his hand on my hips refusing to let go.
"And now? What do you see?" I ask, glancing at him sideways over my shoulder.
He glances down the line of my profile for a moment, then back up, near my temple.
"Someone who's shaking and still trying to act cocky."
"Someone who's here thanks to you… and you thanks to her."
"Tsk." His tongue against his teeth. "Don't be so smart."
"Then you tell me: what should I do?"
His right hand moves up from my hip to my waist, slow, sure; the other remains on my back, pulling me ever so slightly closer.
"Stop," he murmurs in my ear, his voice scratchy. "Breathe. With me."
"Orders, Sergeant?"
"Tsk... call them what you want, you moron. Now do it."
The argument lingers, suspended between one breath and the next, and it grows more intense.
I remain with my back against his chest; I reach back, hooking his sleeve with two fingers, barely a gesture. He responds by taking a breath closer, his chin brushing my temple.
"Bakugo..."
"Shut up," he repeats, but without growling. It's almost a whisper. I feel his chest pressed against my back, his nose brushing the back of my neck; his breath brushes my hair away from my ear.
"You give off warmth." I blurt out. I don't even know if I said it out loud.
"It has to be obvious, right?" He replies, very close.
For a moment, nothing happens, yet everything happens: the weight of his hand holding my hips, the fire crackling, the storm rumbling in the distance, the cave holding our silence.
Then he rests his forehead on the curve between my neck and shoulder, a strange contact that takes my breath away.
His hand slides from my hip, grazes my belly, and moves back up; with his thumb, he traces the line of my jaw from the earlobe to the corner of my mouth...a brief, electric touch.
I lean my head back a half-centimeter, without thinking, as if I were made to fit here, against him.
And here I tell you, just at you (we're adults, you know): I feel his tension growing between his legs. It's a warm, determined presence, reaching my back and making me miss a breath. It's not a misunderstanding: it's him who gets harder every time I breathe in his rhythm.
And I... I heat up. I don't know if I should move or stay; my body decides before me, and I don't move. I stay there, a half-foot closer than before, my heart keeping time with the fire, and I pretend not to tremble...but it's not cold, this time.
"Katsuki..."
"Shut up, Junko." He murmurs into my hair, and my name sparks. "If I have to stop, tell me."
"Don't stop." I say it clearly, so even the storm can hear it.
His hands move up from my hips to my waist, planting a warmth on me that pushes away the last of the chill. He pulls me close enough to erase the space between us.
I tilt my head toward the fire, offering him my neck wordlessly. His mouth returns, deeper, and his teeth graze my skin, as if it were a strange warning.
I turn my face slightly; he slides onto my neck, and his warm breath travels to my ear. I feel his nose brush my cheek, the rhythm of his breathing returning to my chest. My heart stops racing and finds his.
"Are you done shaking?" he mutters, with that crooked sweetness that only comes out when no one's looking.
"Yes, now," I whisper. "I'm better, now."
He laughs softly, a short, incredulous sound. One hand remains at my waist, the other slides in front of me, over my breast. Palm open, grip secure and gentle.
I'm telling you this because I have zero filters right now: what the hell is going on? Why is he (of all people) being sweet? (Yes, I said it. Sweet.) His voice is still rough, but his hands… his hands are gentle. And I… I'm giving him space.
What if we really go through with this? Is this even what I want?
I fire questions at myself one after another, like bullets in a magazine: Do I trust him? Do I actually like him, or is he just warming me up? Is this desire, or just the echo of the cold fading?
The honest answer (the one I won't put in the report), is that I feel both lucid and excited. I know I can tell him to stop at any moment; and knowing that… makes me want to stay here a little longer.
If tomorrow you ask me, "Were you sure?" I'll tell you this: I was listening to myself, not the storm, not him, not the idea I had of us. If we move forward, it's because I choose to; if I stop, it's for the same reason.
For now, I keep my heartbeat within earshot and my words brief: I'm in. And I listen to what my body says when it stops shaking.
I turn toward him, slowly, until his chest fills my vision. We move together, coordinated in a way we never are on the field: half a step mine, half his, the fire keeping time behind us. The kiss finds our mouths again; a simple rhythm is born...me, him, the crackling embers. Every time I try to speak, he steals the syllables from my lips...and, I swear, I have no desire to steal them back.
"Look at me," he says at one point, an order that almost sounds like a request.
I look up; his eyes are dark red and shiny, like two blades kept warm.
"Like this," he adds, more quietly. "Good girl."
His thumb runs over my lips, then he grips my neck with the palm of his hand, as if to memorize it. I slide a hand to the nape of his neck, through his still-damp hair, and lean in a breath. Do you hear? I'm telling you softly: my head feels light here, nothing is spinning here...just my heartbeat synchronizing with his.
If you're here with me (I know you are), know that this is the point where the argument ends, leaving only urgency. Words become unnecessary; the rest speaks for itself.
"Let me undress you..." he whispers in my ear.
The fire emits a small explosion of resin, like a sudden applause. His hand slides to my belt: he unbuttons my uniform pants, one, two, slowly, he pulls them off and waits a moment. He looks at me. I nod slightly. He takes me by the hips, leads me (a short step, a half turn) and slides me onto his lap, in my underwear, sitting on top. The heat doubles, and so does my breathing.
He bends his head, returns to my neck, and climbs back up to my mouth. I follow him, defenseless.
Beneath me, he moves slowly, with a rhythm that lifts me up and brings me back down; his breathing becomes shallow, ragged. The kisses change: deeper, more voracious, as if he were both in a hurry and patient.
As he moves, I feel his hardness through the fabric of his uniform and my panties, and I become even more turned on. He stops me with his voice, rough in my ear:
"Tsk... enough words. Now. Undress me. If you want me, move."
I hold his gaze for a moment, then my fingers move downward: I unhook his tactical belt, unzip it, loosen the buckles. He doesn't retreat, his breath shallow, hot on my neck. As I touch him, a low moan escapes him; his breath comes in two gasps, as if the fire had taken some of his air. It's not a growl, nor a first-time command.
I confess to you: with that sound I feel a piece of his armor fall away. It's just a moment, really. It hits me like warmth, it straightens my back. It makes me brave.
I think: there you are, like this. And my hands stop asking permission...they know what to do. The rest is the rhythm of his breath seeking mine and the certainty, finally, that I'm not the only one giving in. I run a hand over his chest from under his uniform, slowly moving down, pressing short kisses along his sternum. He makes a low sound, his breathing becoming ragged. I lower myself between him and the firelight.
I slide his boxers off, pushing my panties aside. His red eyes stare at me, unreadable, his breathing ragged, reeking of long-repressed desire. I climb on top of him and penetrate me, letting myself go completely. He bends his knees, sits up, and grabs me by the buttocks, still watching me from below. He anchors me to him.
"Don't go away," he whispers, almost angrily, as if the darkness might take me away at any moment.
I stay there, motionless at first. I begin to move from above him, slowly at first, more confidently later. His breath hitches near my mouth.
"Good girl, like this," he murmurs, his eyes searching my chest and touching the tip of his nose to the center. I continue from above, letting myself go completely.
He kisses my breasts, and a moan escapes me as I look down at him.
Then, suddenly, he says nothing: he grabs me by the hips and pushes me aside, forcing me to collapse onto the cold floor of the cave. The gesture is sharp, sudden, typically his.
Only afterward, breathless, does he thunder:
"Stay still."
He positions himself behind me: knees on either side of me, his chest covering my back, one hand on my shoulder, the other on my hips to position me just right.
He moves closer and touches my belly. I instinctively open my legs; he lifts one of my thighs and holds it. In one slow movement, we join together, and I feel his warm breath slide down my neck.
He leads me, and I'm completely still this time. The rhythm picks up again. His breath slips into my ear.
"Oh... Good... stay like that."
Needless to say, from here on out, a flurry of thrusts unfolds in rapid succession. With one hand he holds me anchored to him, enveloping me, with the other he grips my hips and goes incredibly fast.
"Come on... cum. Cum for me, you idiot..." he whispers in my ear.
I feel the contractions, I've been feeling them ever since he said "idiot" like that. I throw my head back, brushing his hair with mine, his hands gripping me even tighter. I can't hold back the moans any longer, so I let go of everything I'm feeling in that moment, cupping a hand over my mouth so he can't hear me.
He slows almost to a stop as the waves overwhelm me. He does this because he feels every contraction of my vulva and accompanies it, moaning along with me.
His breathing is ragged, and I'm still tense.
He, on the verge of a growl: "Don't you dare stop now."
"I'm here," I reply, panting.
"Look at me, damn it."
I turn my face and my shoulder a little. I do it.
"Good girl. Stay still here... open your legs wide."
I nod, my breath returning. I open my legs a little wider, keeping my leg still straight up.
He softens slightly and starts again. Still very fast, the thrusts deeper than before. I continue to moan, I push my back even closer to his chest, with one hand he grabs my breast and squeezes it, hard. Just before he gives in, his breathing changes: it breaks into low growls, almost scratches in the air. The rhythm becomes tight, precise, with more decisive and full movements, as if he wanted to hold everything together until the very end. His shoulders tense, the heat rises, and his voice slips away in a short, held sound. It comes out and cums on my buttocks.
***
After half an hour, the fire has died down to embers. Our breathing slowly settles, like a wave receding after crashing against a rock. The cave smells strongly of embers, mingling with the smell of sex: I like it. (Shh, don't tell anyone.) I touch myself: my skin is still attached to my body, I'm alive, and I can feel it in my heart pounding in my throat.
I'm telling you, because I don't tell anyone outside: we just finished fucking. And no, I'm not pretending nothing happened. Why should I? I'm not in love, I'm not writing hearts on the relationship. (I already said that). I'm holding on to this simple truth: I chose it. I chose to do it, period. And now I'm here wondering what I'm going to do with the aftermath.
Why him? Why is he being sweet now, when he's usually unbearable and harsh with me? And why have I (who always push him away with words, always as cold as he is) just physically said "stay"? The most honest answer I have is this: he saw me and he didn't ask me to change. He held his ground, like on the pitch, but with me. It was enough to make me say yes. The rest...labels, consequences, definitions...I'll leave here, between you and me. I won't put it in the file.
While I'm lost in my thoughts, he moves slightly, without making too much noise. He drapes his jacket over my shoulders. "Drink," he says, handing me the canteen. I obey.
"We'll take turns," he adds. "You take an hour, then I'll take care of it. We'll try the check at dawn."
"Got it."
He nods. He tightens his gloves, glances at the mouth of the cave. His profile is hard, his voice still hoarse. Then he turns to me.
"You don't owe me anything."
"I didn't ask you for anything."
I see it: the half-smile that doesn't reach his mouth. "Good."
I remain beside him, my back against the cold rock, the low fire keeping us company. The transmitters are still dead, and the storm outside has stopped blaring. (Thank goodness, because it was disturbing.) Inside me, however, everything is silent, but it's not an empty silence.
If you see us growling on the pitch tomorrow, don't blink. That's just who we are. But now I know something I didn't know before...that the word "together" isn't a burden, it's a place. I don't know if we'll keep it. I don't know if we'll want it. For now, I'll put it here, between my ribs and this page.
I'll sleep for an hour. Wake me up if anything changes, okay?
After one hour...
I can't tell you how long I slept, honestly. A whole hour? Half a dream? He wakes me, with a sharp tap on the shoulder and that low, slightly hoarse voice:
"It's your turn."
I nod (I'm awake, I swear), and slowly sit up. He steps back a half step to let me pass...no comment (weird), just makes room.
I approach the exit of the mini-cave. Outside, the air bites: it's freezing cold, smelling of wet earth and pine trees that have been soaking up rain all night. I rub my hands together to steal some warmth from my fingers; instead of breath, a white vapor comes out, like cigarette smoke. (Don't worry: I'm fine. And I don't smoke!).
And here comes the funny part: I feel him on me. I feel his eyes on me, from behind my back. He doesn't speak, he doesn't make a scene, but his eyes weigh on my shoulders. I pretend nothing's happening (I know you think I'm capable), and I sit against the wall, straight, my gaze fixed on the mouth of the cave. One ear to the forest, one to the darkness.
Behind him, shortly afterward, his breathing slows. He seems to be asleep... but I know him: it's that tense silence of someone who counts the noises. Basically: the two of us stand guard, even when it's my turn. And, even if I don't tell him, it's convenient.
(Of course, I'm telling you the way I would a friend who doesn't judge.)
Sitting here, with the cold air coming in wisps and the fire reduced to embers, my mind wanders back to what happened with Bakugo Katsuki. I try to smell his jacket, which obviously smells of smoke, my hands tingle with cold, the drones buzz like metallic mosquitoes somewhere above the trees. I breathe in and out, and the memory lines up on its own.
The simple version is this: his desire was probably repressed. (Maybe, eh?). Mine was the same. (I know that for sure.) We were left under pressure, soaked, cold, stuck in a cave with water dripping from the rocks (it takes nothing for the body to decide on its own). It took him no time at all. For me... too. No poetry, no strategy. Two adults who found themselves saying "yes" at the same time, with the same urgency, without expecting anything afterward. The end.
And there's no need to write a novel about it, really. It happens. It happens to everyone: the adrenaline drops, the heat is low, the closeness does the rest. There was no heroism, there was no disaster. There was a moment when it seemed right. Maybe even necessary. And then the silence returns, the shoulders straighten, the breathing returns to normal.
I'll tell you this too, so we don't beat around the bush: from the next day, everything will go back to normal. Or at least, that's the working hypothesis. He'll start growling again, and I'll answer him if necessary. The radio will crackle, the shifts will fit together, the tasks will be the same as usual. On the pitch, we'll be what we need to be: functional. Professional. Maybe, when we cross paths, there'll be a half-second of hesitation...a fleeting glance, a casual "Is everything okay?" Then it passes. The military base taught us: you file it away, you move on. Especially when it's cold outside and someone has to keep an eye out.
If reality decides to prove me wrong...we'll find out later. Not today. Today, there's no point in calling it a "complication," a "mistake," or a "promise." Today, I need to keep my hands warm and my mind clear.
For now, the episode goes in the "extraordinary circumstances" box. I label it in block letters, calmly close the lid, and keep the key in my pocket. I don't throw it away, I don't lose it: I simply carry it with me. I breathe, listen to the creaking of the woods, count the seconds between one echo and the next. The fire does its slow work. I keep watch. Sleepless.