Navigation : Midnight Records! The Starlight EP! The Mha EP!

navigation : midnight records! the starlight EP! the mha EP!

"TELL ME NOT TO" — Bakugo Katsuki

a/n : being a girl means rewatching your childhood tv shows when you’re depressed, I missed one tree hill sm

warnings : alcohol, everyone is 18+, inspired by one tree hill

content : 3rd year Bakugo. f2l. mutual pining. fluff

Navigation : Midnight Records! The Starlight EP! The Mha EP!

Graduation night feels like the end of the world—but in a good way.

The Class 3-A dorms are packed, the air thick with heat, music, and the bittersweet kind of joy that comes when everything is about to change. Everyone’s too loud, too drunk, too alive. Mina’s dancing on the couch. Kaminari’s spinning a bottle like it’s a roulette wheel. Someone’s passed out on the stairs.

Truly, you love your classmates and you love this chaos. But right now, you need a breather.

You slip outside barefoot, still warm from the inside out, the bottle in your hand nearly empty. The grass is cool beneath your feet, soft and wet with the tail end of spring. You take a deep breath of it all—the quiet, the dark, the distant hum of music behind you—and smile to yourself.

Then the door opens. You don’t turn. You don’t have to, because you know it’s him.

“Took you long enough,” you call out, voice light, teasing. “Didn’t know I was supposed to babysit your ass all night,” Bakugo mutters. You spin around, walking backward now, grinning at him over the top of your bottle. “You weren’t. But you always end up doing it anyway.”

His eyes narrow, but his expression is too relaxed to be annoyed. He’s got that lazy look he only ever gets after two drinks—when the sharpness of him softens just enough to show the version he keeps hidden. His skull shirt is rumpled, damp with something spilled, his hair more chaotic than usual. He looks like he’s halfway through pretending he doesn’t want to be near you.

You raise your brows. “You’re tipsy.” He scoffs. “I’m fine.”

“You’re drunk aren’t you.”

“You’re annoying.”

“You love it.”

His mouth twitches—and for a second, you think he might actually smile.

But then you hear it. A low hiss. The faint hum of pressure building in the ground. You freeze just slightly, eyes flicking to the sprinkler heads lining the edge of the lawn. Your grin spreads like wildfire. “Oh my god,” you murmur. Bakugo blinks. “What?”

And then—You shove him right into the spray.

PSHHHHHHT.

Cold water explodes out of the sprinklers, nailing him straight in the chest. He stumbles back, half-jumping, half-growling, already soaked. “What the fuck!”

You double over laughing. “I told you you were drunk, your reflexes didn’t work !” you say to him. “You’re dead,” he snaps, and then he’s coming for you.

You shriek, laughing too hard to run properly, skidding across the grass as the sprinklers rotate, catching you both in random bursts. You dodge one spray just to get nailed by another, and now you’re soaked—your dress clinging to your legs, hair stuck to your forehead, mascara probably halfway down your cheeks.

Bakugo’s chasing you across the lawn like it’s a damn battlefield. “You think you’re funny?” he yells.

“I know I’m funny !”

“You’re an idiot !”

“But I’m your idiot !”

His laugh slips out before he can stop it. It’s low and surprised, like he didn’t expect it himself. You catch it—catch the exact second it happens—and it hits you harder than the water.

Because it’s real. Because Bakugo never laughs like that. You slow a little, just enough for him to catch you.

Your laughter cuts off as his arm hooks around your waist, dragging you backward, off balance, legs slipping in the soaked grass. You’re weightless for half a second before you crash down into the lawn, the cold seeping through your clothes instantly—but it’s not harsh.

He lands half on top of you, one arm braced beside your head, the other still around your waist, holding you steady like the ground might give out. Water from the sprinklers mists over you both in waves. Somewhere, someone’s still shouting from the party. But here? It’s quiet.

His chest is rising and falling against yours. His shirt is soaked, clinging to every line of muscle, and your fingers are curled into the fabric without realizing. His hair is dripping, blonde strands stuck to his forehead, water trailing down the edge of his jaw.

You’re both breathing hard. And for once… he’s not pulling away.

His eyes find yours—narrowed just slightly, like he’s still caught somewhere between disbelief and something much deeper. His scowl is gone. In its place is this bare awe that steals the air from your lungs more than the fall did.

Your voice comes out low. Playful, but softer now. “I win.” He huffs, barely a laugh. “You’re a menace, you know that?”

“You like it though"

He doesn’t answer. Instead, his gaze flicks down—quick, instinctive—to your lips. And then right back up. But you saw it.

And the way he’s looking at you now, it’s like he’s finally letting himself see you. Not just as the friend he’s joked with, sparred with, stayed up too late with—but as the person he’s been falling for slowly but hard. The one thing he never let himself touch.

Until now.

You whisper it before you can second-guess, “You’re gonna kiss me or what?” His eyes flicker, and for a beat, he just stares. Like he’s trying to memorize everything—your soaked dress, your flushed cheeks, the way you’re not pushing him away.

“Tell me not to,” he murmurs. It’s not a threat. It’s a warning. A plea. You don’t say a word, you just lean up. And that’s what he needed to meet you halfway.

The kiss is urgent. Messy in the way only first kisses can be—especially ones that have been waiting way too long. His lips crash against yours with no warning, no hesitation. He tastes like cheap liquor and rainwater and something you’ve been craving without even knowing it.

There’s nothing gentle about it—at first. It’s heat and release and finally, all tangled into one moment that feels too big for your chest. But then—he softens.

His hand moves from your waist to your cheek, fingers brushing water off your skin like he wants to memorize the shape of your face. His mouth slows, moving over yours with more intention now, like he’s realizing he gets to have this. That you’re real. That you’re not pulling away.

And you kiss him back like you’ve been waiting for this since day one. Because you have.

His thumb brushes the corner of your jaw. Your hand slides up into his wet hair, tugging gently. You can feel the way his body melts into yours, feel the sigh he lets out against your lips like he’s been holding his breath for years.

He pulls back, just far enough to breathe, and for a long second, neither of you says anything.

His forehead is still resting against yours, breath hot and uneven, fingers still curled tight around your waist like letting go isn’t even an option. Your lips are swollen. Your pulse is loud in your ears. You can still taste him.

You open your eyes—and he’s already looking at you. Not like your best friend. Not like a maybe. Like someone who’s been drowning in almosts for a year and finally—finally—got air. “Shit,” you whisper, because that’s all your brain can manage.

He exhales a soft laugh, eyes dropping to your mouth, like he’s thinking about kissing you again. Like he might never stop.

One more second. One more heartbeat. Then he murmurs, voice rough and quiet: “Took you long enough.” You smile. “Shut up.”

And you kiss him again.

2025 © NANASRKIVES. / do not copy, repost, edit, plagiarize, or translate any of my works on any platforms, including ai.

TAGLIST (OPEN). / @ayatakanosstuff @arwawawa2 @itsmeaudrieee @g-h-o-s-t-b-a-b-i @andysteve1311 @feelya

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