"How Do You Write Such Realistic Dialogue-" I TALK TO MYSELF. I TALK TO MYSELF AND I PRETEND I AM THE

EVERYONE SOBBED PROBABLY

Can you do what the bnha boys would do if they were jealous?🤭 (text or headcanon, whatever works for you) (Shoto, Katsuki, Midoryia, and Shinso are my favs btw!) I love your writing idk why it’s just too good

ᴊᴇᴀʟᴏᴜꜱ, ᴊᴇᴀʟᴏᴜꜱ, ᴊᴇᴀʟᴏᴜꜱ ʙᴏʏ!

includes: katsuki bakugo, shoto todoroki, izuku midoriya, and hitoshi shinso

fem!reader

a/n: headcanons & smau, first time writing izuku tell me how it is, send an ask if you want other characters 🤗

ᴋᴀᴛꜱᴜᴋɪ ʙᴀᴋᴜɢᴏ

⟁ probably the most jealous (maybe tied with shinso)

⟁ as we know, not above threatening (and more)

⟁ will likely be kind of grumpy till you get him alone and then he's a clingy bitch (with love)

ꜱʜᴏᴛᴏ ᴛᴏᴅᴏʀᴏᴋɪ

❆ won't say anything, but his hand's on your waist and if a look could kill, the guy talking to you would be dead.

❆ if the guy ain't stopping he will walk up with his "defying authority" tone and rip into him

❆ honestly very patient most of the time with the whole situation (he’s sassier in the smau)

ɪᴢᴜᴋᴜ ᴍɪᴅᴏʀɪʏᴀ

ϟ doesn’t really care about the guy talking to you, he trusts you completely, until he realizes you look uncomfortable

ϟ pulls up his hero pants and gets the guy away from you

ϟ sososo understanding

ʜɪᴛᴏꜱʜɪ ꜱʜɪɴꜱᴏ

〄 HIS HANDS ARE ALL OVERRR YOU

〄 very very threatening presence, guard dog asf

〄 prob the most intimidating

Would having my favorite fictional character as my boyfriend fix any of my problems? No, not at all, but at least I would get comfort cuddles and kisses on my forehead.

BAKUGOU KATSUKI ✰ BIRTHDAY BOY, HAPPY BIRTHDAY

Bakugou used to love birthdays.

He’d be the center of attention. With every year being bigger than the last (because, honestly, did you expect his well-off parents to hold back on their only son?). Cameras clicked, kids shouted his name, and adults smiled in awe. He never cared if they liked him or feared him—he was admired.

And for a time, that was enough.

But somewhere along the line, the spark in those birthday candles started to feel dull.

His parents still celebrated, of course, usually with a home-cooked meal, a cake from his favorite bakery, and a gift he pretended not to like but secretly adored. His grandparents would always show up with noisy hugs and poorly wrapped presents, and his mother still made him wear a stupid little birthday crown at the table.

It was embarrassing, but it was also safe.

Familiar.

Then came UA.

By high school, the world cracked open in ways he hadn’t expected.

Everyone was strong.

Everyone had dreams.

He wasn’t the only one aiming for the top, and it was maddening—but also, for the first time, grounding. And he got friends—real ones. Not sycophants or kids scared of his quirk to say anything—so they just stay behind him, but people who challenged him through his shouting, his pride, and his anger.

Shitty Hair was the first to barge into his dorm room on his birthday with a lopsided grin and a poorly wrapped gift. “It’s a protein bar sampler! Thought you’d wanna see which one you could crush with one hand!”

After that, it became a tradition. Racoon Eyes brought handmade cards with glittery explosions. Soy Face made crown cut-outs from construction paper that Bakugou refused to wear but never threw away. Dunce Face bought the same grocery store cake every year with a new dumb nickname written in icing (he gets more creative each year—it’s starting to piss Bakugou off).

It was stupid. It was chaotic. It was good.

It became his day again.

And now—now he was 23.

The world around him had changed again.

He was a pro now. He had his own agency, his own patrols, and his own damn business cards that got passed around in hero circles and used to shut down villains on sight. Dynamight—no, Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight, they called him, like he was some unstoppable force (and an unstoppable force for a long-ass hero name). Which he was, most of the time.

But today?

Today, he just wanted to come home.

The celebration at the agency had been loud, grand, and grating. His staff meant well. Hell, even his sidekick (wow, surprising, he only had one because he was the only kid with the balls to directly say to Bakugou that he’ll surpass him during a personal interview) had pooled money to get him a custom gauntlet case with engraved initials.

There were banners (too flashy), snacks (pretty good), an off-key song, and a gaudy cake that someone ordered with indoor-safe sparklers instead of candles. He’d smiled (barely), given a thank-you speech that was short and gruff but genuine, and then dipped out the first moment he could without looking like a total ass. Bakugou knew exactly where he wanted to be.

Home.

You were waiting for him there.

Because you are his home.

He inhaled and instantly recognized the scent of soy, garlic, and ginger—it hit like a nostalgic punch straight to his gut. Home cooking. His home. You.

You peeked your head out from the kitchen and grinned. “Took you long enough, birthday boy.”

He let out a long breath, shoulders dropping, mouth tugging into a real smile as he kicked off his boots and unzipped his jacket, haphazardly draping it on the coat rack. “You been cooking this whole time?” he asked, padding toward the kitchen, hands already aching to hug you.

“I had to start late since someone had a fancy party,” you teased, arching a brow.

He caught your waist and pulled you in, burying his face into your shoulder. You were warm. Always warm. Always his to come home to. “Smelled it from the driveway. Thought I was gonna cry.”

You laughed, carding your fingers through his hair. It’s soft. It’s real. It’s what Bakugou, for the longest time of his life, thought he didn’t deserve.

“Well don’t cry. You’ll ruin your grumpy old man image.”

“You keep sayin’ old like I’m ancient,” he grumbled, voice muffled against you.

“You are! Twenty-three? That’s basically the beginning of the end.”

Bakugou snorted, lifting his head just enough to kiss your cheek. “Then I guess you better start takin’ care of me, huh?” he murmured, giving you another kiss on the cheek—and he’s tempted to bite into those round cheeks of yours, but he holds back; maybe later, he thinks. “Gonna live up to your promise?”

“I already do,” you said, smug.

Dinner was spread out in neat portions on your little dining table—fried karaage, miso soup, tamagoyaki, mapo tofu (yes, you finally lived up to surpassing Fuyumi’s recipe), Japanese curry, and a bowl of white rice shaped into a neat little mountain with a pickled plum on top. Comfort food. His favorites.

You even laid out a folded napkin at his seat and put a can of his favorite cold tea beside it.

But it was the bento cake in the center that made him pause. It was small—round and modest, clearly homemade. The white frosting was a little uneven, and there were three stubby candles jammed into the top in a crooked triangle. The frosting on top attempted an explosion shape but looked more like a flower in bloom. He loved it.

“You made that?” he asked, lowering into the seat and staring at it like it was some rare artifact.

“Baked and frosted. Don’t look too close, or you’ll see my fingerprints in it,” you said, sitting across from him. “And before you ask—no, I didn’t buy it from some store. I wanted to make it for you. Even if it’s ugly.”

“It’s not ugly.”

“Liars go to hell.”

He huffs. “Well, I think it’s fuckin’ adorable.”

You two ate slowly. Bakugou didn’t scarf it down like he did in the breakroom or during hero meetings. He savored each bite as you two shared a warm conversation over dinner. You told him how a kid at daycare tried to make you a birthday card to give to him but ended up scribbling dinosaurs fighting a volcano instead. You showed him a crayon drawing folded in your bag. It said, “Happpy Brithdai KATSOOKY.”

He laughed so hard he snorted.

After dinner, you two sat at the table for a while, talking about nothing, hands brushing occasionally, until you leaned forward and lit the candles. When you’re close like this, Bakugou could clearly remember every feature on your face—it’s something he wants to commit to memory every night.

“Make a wish.”

“Hm,” he hummed in thought.

“Make a wish quickly before the fire alarm sets off, dummy,” you smiled, joking.

He looked at you through the candlelight—lips slightly parted, eyes soft and loving. Yeah, he wants your face engraved in the deepest corners of his brain.

Bakugou made a wish. Then blew them out.

“What’d you wish for?” you asked.

He got up, walked around the table, and pulled you to your feet. “You.”

“You already have me,” you tilted your head to the side.

“Then I wished for more of you,” he replied, pressing your foreheads together.

“You’re sappy when you’re full,” you murmured, brushing your thumb across his jaw.

“I’m sappy when you bake me cake and feed me curry.”

You fed each other bites of the bento cake, poking fun at how sweet it was, until he dabbed a bit of icing on your nose. You retaliated by smearing it across his cheek. It turned into a mini war. Hands, faces, even his shirt took frosting damage. He scooped some off his collar and flicked it at you.

“I surrender! Oh my god, we’re a mess.”

“We can always take a shower later,” he says.

...

“Is that a suggestion or a promise?”

“You’re fuckin’ shameless,” he taunted, though showering together after isn’t that far off from what he was thinking.

“Uh huh. And who’s now old?”

“Still not me,” he said, wiping his face clean with a napkin. “And even if I was—if I hit fifty and go bald and need reading glasses and fall asleep at 9PM—if you’re still here with me, I’ll be fine.”

You paused.

“Yeah?”

He nodded.

“Even if I go gray first?” you asked.

“I’ll dye it with you.”

“What if I need a cane?”

“I’ll get one with spikes, and we’ll match.”

You laughed so hard you almost fell onto him. And when you looked up again, your eyes were glassy with affection.

“Happy birthday, Katsuki.”

He cupped your cheek, thumb brushing your skin with care he rarely showed anyone else.

“Best one yet.”

SEUMYO © 2025. PLEASE DO NOT REPOST, PLAGIARIZE, MODIFY OR TRANSLATE.

gryffindor class of ‘98!

me logging onto tumblr after consuming a new piece of media

fuck it ik u cant rlly spot george weasley fans in the wild but i love this man and i have free will so i posted this 🩵

lover, you should've come over, 'cause it's not too late. | g. weasley

burning in the corner is the only one who dreams he had you with him. george weasley never wanted to be in love. but that day—that one special day from his first year that he'll forever hold dear - is when he caught a glimpse of your bewitching eyes and those stray ethereal curls he dreamt so much of touching. to hold you was to go to heaven—or so he said.

lonely is the room, the bed is made, the open window lets the rain in. each passing moment with you was eternal—those moments when he touched you, when he felt like he wasn't a half of a whole; like he was his own person, only associated with you.

sometimes a man gets carried away when he feels like he should be having his fun, much too blind to see the damage he's done. there was this fight between the two of you, right before the great war. you knew there would be consequences in participating in it, whilst he was ever the griffindor—always fearless and courageous. he could remember your sad words of goodbye that night; when you held him so tightly whispering words of sugariness althought you made it very clear that you were on different sides. be brave, griffindor. be strong as the walls you've built around your heart.

his body turns, and yearns for a sleep that won't ever come. he could never live that way again. his old, carefree ways spent with his dear departed brother, fred—all gone. and the worse of all, you weren't there. you'll never be there again. all the sadness and destruction that happened in his life was all because he chose to stray away from you; from the everlasting sweetness you had provided his life. all gone, all gone.

sometimes a man must awake to find that, really he has no one. as he spent a whole year alone, with weasley's wizarding wheezes closed and his time spent all on trying to move on—he couldn't. he sees and hears and reads your name everywhere, may it be on the daily prophet where he reads that your family has moved on, or in his mother's mouth when she casually mentions that you have visited the burrow when he wasn't around. he hears your voice at his sister's pre-recorded messages from you, which contained all the sweet, kind words he wanted to hear. you were everywhere.

oh, love, well, he's waited for you. those months he spent with angelina—his brother's past girlfriend were only temporary soltitude; whilst his mind's peace when he was around you lasted forevermore. he couldn't help but compare your smile with her's, and how his words for angelina never seemed genuine. he felt like angelina, too, was looking for something she could never get back. and like two kindred souls, they decided being lonely together was better than mourning fred alone. it was too fast to be healthy for the both of them, and they knew that very well. so when things took a turn and they fighted, fighted, and fighted—he remembered you and how you fought, fought, and fought. all his fault.

sweet lover, you should've come over. him and angelina eventually separated, and his feet found itself on your door. he knocked, three times—your lucky number. and as soon as you opened the door, he begged, begged and begged.

"i know—i know that i am not worthy of standing at your door, but my love— let me; let me fall in love with you once more; not one single moment did i stop— so that i can truly prove to you that i am."

MINORS DNI 18+

GEORGE WEASLEY knows you’re with his brother, but you confuse him with all your mixed signals. Always holding his hand when you walk next to him down the halls, playing with his hair when you lay his head down on your thigh in the courtyard, inviting yourself to sit in his lap whenever you please. At first he thought you were mistaking him for your boyfriend, but it’s gone on long enough to where he knows that you can tell them apart. He sees it in your eyes how you recognize him, call him by name, and still lead him on. You wear his clothes when you’re cold and give them back smelling like your perfume; you excitedly run up to him for a friendly hug yet press your tits up against his chest while he’s forced to stoop and wrap his arms around your waist; you’ve compared your hand size to his and didn’t say anything when he broke out in a sweat, biting his lip nervously as he thinks about other contexts in which he’s bigger than you. Fred’s no help in this situation, he just thinks he’s got a fit girlfriend who he likes showing off. “Amazing, isn’t she?” he’ll tell George, and George wonders if he should be agreeing. His brother isn’t inviting him to try you out for a spin, is he? It’s hard to tell when he’s got that look in his eyes. George doesn’t know, but in the past, Fred’s gotten a lot of mileage out of the special privileges twins share.

Fred & George Weasley - Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban (2004)

(Reblog and give credit if reposted.)

When I should be talking to guys my age but I keep thinking about men the same age as my dad.