#opm reader insert

(A/N: …i haven’t updated my opm fics in ages, but i still wanted to contribute something to this dying fandom. this is kind of a sequel to my very first fic, »Bad Publicity«, but with a bit of a sexy twist heh i still love that story a lot, but i’ve honestly lost a lot of motivation to continue it, and my writing style has changed so much that i’d probably want to rewrite the whole thing (which will most likely never happen) 🫩

sorry to the readers still waiting for an update, but i hope some of you come across this and see it as a bit of compensation 🫶

you don’t need to read the first fic, but here’s some context that might help:

reader is genos’ very diligent and hard-working manager, and she has co-workers (momo and aiko) who manage other heroes. she gets stressed easily, is constantly worried about her job, has a serious caffeine addiction, and has somewhat of a stick up her ass lmao she’s inspired by ashley from the boys and retsuko from aggretsuko!

also, just a heads up: everyone in this story is kind of dumb and oblivious but we’re rolling with it, because it’s literally just porn)

Day 1: Saitama

If you had to describe yourself in three words, they would be: funny, smart, and most of all, reliable. If you asked other people, though, the answer would change just slightly: stiff, oblivious, but grossly dependable.

“Indecisive,” however, wouldn’t make either list. Not from your friends, your family, or anyone else who knew you.

And they’d be right.

You’d always known what you wanted. Ever since you were a kid, you’d had your whole future mapped out with extreme clarity: You’d start as an intern straight out of college, work your way up to marketing manager, and eventually become a chief marketing officer at a reputable company.

Not exactly a typical dream for an elementary school student, admittedly, but it was achievable and respectable, too.

And being the routine-driven, highly structured person you were, it wasn’t surprising that, years later, you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

Your internship at the Hero Association was finally coming to an end and after putting in the work—weeks, months of it—you’d been offered a permanent position. All those workdays that stretched well past midnight, the endless coffee runs, the hours spent hunched over photocopiers, and the most dreadful task of all, shooing away protestors from the company grounds, had finally paid off.

So when Mister Sato had finally given you the contract for becoming Genos’ official manager, it was, without a doubt, the happiest, most satisfying, day of your life, second only to your graduation day from A-City University.

Just a few more weeks, and you’d check off the first milestone of that long-standing plan.

To top it all off, after a lot of begging, persistence, and increasingly shameless negotiating with your boss, you’d even managed to secure seven full days of paid time off. At this point, if you somehow, by any miracle, won the lottery next Saturday, you could probably die the luckiest person in the world.

Everything was going according to plan.

And if you could solve that one small problem, then everything would be just perfect.

You’d been staring at your laptop screen for hours now, typing, deleting, and rewriting the same list you’d been working on for nearly three weeks. It wasn’t like you to finish something so last-minute—your vacation started tomorrow, after all—but narrowing things down turned out to be way harder than expected.

Again, no, you weren’t “indecisive”. Not at all.

There were just too many shows worth binge-watching, too many restaurants you wanted to try, and somehow, between it all, you still had to fit in meeting your friends. Sorting through all of it took time; like anything worth doing. Which was exactly why you were so deep in planning mode.

You were so absorbed, in fact, that you didn’t hear the key turning, the door opening and closing, and not even the heavy footsteps that followed.

It only registered when a voice came from right behind you.

“What are you looking at?”

You jumped so hard you nearly knocked the laptop off the chabudai table.

A loud yelp escaped before you could stop it. Then, instinctively, you snapped the laptop shut, a little too forcefully, maybe, as you turned around and met Saitama’s blank expression standing just a step behind you.

You gave him a nervous smile. “You scared me for a sec.”

“It is my apartment, you know,” he said, setting a plastic bag down by the door. A bunch of green onions stuck out from the top, along with a mix of other vegetables visible through the thin plastic. Probably another discount run, you concluded. He’d probably have Genos turn it into something decent later. “I should be the one surprised you’re here.”

You gave him a sheepish smile and took another sip of your coffee. It had been months since you’d been assigned as Genos’ manager, back when you were still just an intern, and dropping by Saitama’s apartment had become fairly routine. They lived together, after all.

The place itself was barely bigger than a shoebox, but you’d grown oddly fond of it. It reminded you of your own small apartment in E-City.

“You didn’t answer me,” Saitama said, lowering himself onto the hardwood floor beside you, legs crossed.

You hummed, tilting your head in question.

He nodded toward your laptop. “What were you looking at?”

Your eyes followed his, and your grin spread.

“As you know,” you said, flipping the laptop back open, “I’m on vacation starting tomorrow. So I’ve been planning what to do.”

The screen lit up and with it, an aggressively detailed spreadsheet: Color-coded, time-stamped tables down to the minute, filled with notes, ratings, tiny embedded images, and cross-referenced links. There were contingency plans for delays, alternate routes for takeout deliveries, and even a column labeled Emotional Recovery Time.

You leaned back slightly, arms crossing over your chest as you watched him take it in.

Saitama stared at the screen.

“Wow,” he said after a moment.

It was hard to read him—he wasn’t exactly an expressive man—but you caught the slight pause, the way his eyes swept over your meticulously crafted Excel sheet. You smiled, satisfied. Of course, he was impressed. Anyone would be.

“You even planned your toilet breaks,” he added.

You gave him a nod. “Yup. That way I can relax, knowing everything’s already been taken care of.”

“…right.”

He smiled politely as he blinked. His gaze drifted back to the screen, scanning another dense block of color-coded cells before pausing. Then his finger lifted, pointing at a specific row.

“You want to get a massage?”

He tapped the entry in your schedule; it was a neatly labeled slot for a massage parlour not far from A-City’s center. You’d asked Momo for recommendations the other day, and she’d suggested one that came with complimentary foot massages and a discounted skincare package. Considering your diet had consisted mostly of espresso and hot pot lately, it was long overdue for your already sensitive skin to get some pampering.

“My back’s killing me,” you said, stretching your arms over your head. Sharp, unhealthy cracks followed, and you winced. “I thought about asking Bang for acupuncture, but…” You trailed off with a shudder. Just the thought of a hundred tiny needles piercing your skin was enough to make your skin crawl.

Saitama hummed absently, then suddenly froze as his finger slid further down the screen.

“It’s ¥60,000?!”

You flinched at the sudden volume. It wasn’t like you wanted to spend that much on ninety minutes of someone working the knots out of your back, but if you were going to do it at all, you might as well do it properly.

You shrugged, though your face twisted slightly at the reminder.

“I know, I know, but look—” You grabbed the mouse and clicked into the listing. “It includes a special herbal therapy mix, and there’s live music during the session. Pretty amazing, right?”

The excitement in your voice didn’t quite reach him. Instead, Saitama leaned back, arms crossing, his expression changing. He looked strangely serious now.

“Maybe you should look for a cheaper option,” he said. “You don’t make that much.”

Ouch.

There it was again. That unwarranted, stinging remark Saitama always seemed to have ready at the worst possible moment.

It stung more than it should have.

You knew it was true, though. You weren’t exactly rolling in money, not at all, but hearing it said out loud was just rubbing unnecessary salt into the wound. But it wasn’t like you were completely broke, either. It wasn't a crime to treat yourself once in a while, even when that meant spending almost half of your monthly income at an overpriced massage parlour.

“It’s just this once,” you said, clenching your fists before awkwardly using them to knock against your own back. A sigh slipped out as a bit of tension eased. “At this point, if I go another day like this, I might actually die.”

Saitama hummed again, his brows pinching together in thought. Then, after a brief pause, he snapped his fingers, his expression suddenly brightening. You could practically see the light bulb go off over his shiny bald head.

“How about I just give you a massage?” he said, turning to face you. He nodded, more to himself than anything, as if that would make his idea more convincing. “I’ll do it for free.”

You raised an eyebrow, giving him a slow once-over.

Your gaze wandered from his dark, round eyes down to his open-mouthed smile, finally landing on that awful Oppai hoodie he was wearing again.

Your eyes narrowed. 

How many times had you told him to get rid of it? Didn’t you even throw it out for him the other day?

No—wait.

You exhaled slowly through your nose and suppressed the urge to roll your eyes, stopping the headache before it could fully form. Just one more day, you reminded yourself. You couldn’t afford to freak out now, not when your vacation was less than twenty-four hours away.

“You can give massages?” you asked, not even trying to hide the doubt in your voice. “Do you even have a license?”

Saitama clenched one hand into a fist and smacked it into his open palm.

“Nope. But I watched a video.”

You stared at him for a long, silent moment.

“You can still go to that place tomorrow if it doesn’t work,” he added. “But if you try mine first, you save ¥60,000 and still get a pretty good massage.”

It wasn’t that you didn’t like Saitama enough to let him do it; it was that you didn’t trust him to do it well. There was a reason massage therapists went through proper training for months on end. You’d read all about it while researching your appointment and even had a one-on-one consultation with a therapist in B-City. Different muscles required different techniques, and one wrong move could make things worse or result in problems that weren’t even there in the first place. At least, that's what they'd said. 

You glanced at him again and grimaced.

He looked so excited, sitting there, waiting for your answer with the widest grin you’d ever seen on him.

Saitama had never been the kind of person who liked doing much of anything. He was lazy and unreliable and probably the last person you’d trust to handle something like this. And yet…

The small voice in the back of your mind, the one pointing out that he’d probably be very disappointed if you said no, kept getting louder the longer you stared. You squeezed your eyes shut, lifting a hand to pinch the bridge of your nose as a defeated sigh slipped out.

“Okay,” you said, giving in, and his grin widened instantly.

Before you could react, his hands landed on your shoulders, making you flinch at the sudden contact.

“Let me grab the oils real quick,” he said.

“Oils—?” you started, but before you could finish the question, he was already on his feet and had quickly disappeared into the bathroom.

Your shoulders slumped. Then, when you shifted, you immediately tensed when a sharp knot in your back flared. A small hiss slipped past your lips, and you helplessly let your forehead drop onto the chabudai table with a loud thud, riding out the sudden spike of pain.

Whatever Saitama had planned, your back couldn’t get much worse than it already was.

Saitama 🥚: > Send me a copy of the super sale flyer for the grocery store near you. Can’t find mine. > HEY?

The only thing your friend was ever incredibly demanding about was the sale day at the grocery store. You had to admit, your local store had some really good deals, but you did not understand how he was willing to brave this heat wave to get them. The man was something super human that was for sure. You admired his dedication to getting the best price and hurried yourself to rifling through the stack of papers on your table.

Saitama was lucky you had a soft spot for him because you were entirely too drunk to be doing this right now, you thought, as you finally grabbed the right flyer checking the date. You quickly snapped a picture, not even checking if it was blurry.

You: >As you requested. Always, your humble servant [2 images]

Saitama 🥚: >Thanks.

After your task was completed, you again tossed your phone and laid back on the floor sprawling out trying to bask in the weak, tepid air blowing from the wall unit from you as you could. You mentally chastised yourself for not begging Saitama to pick you up some more tea or even beer at the store as compensation for texting him a measly flyer. You were almost out of anything relatively refreshing and were on the verge of having to bear the heat wave yourself. Your body had just started to relax and you could feel yourself begin to drift off to sleep when your mind recalled ‘[2 images]’.

What the heck did you send Saitama besides the photo of the sale? Your mind was scrambling trying to think of what was most recently in your camera roll when you felt all the blood drain from your face. Remembering your late night “photo shoot” from the previous night. On occasion, when you felt like boosting your self esteem, you would take rather risqué photos of yourself. Nudes. You never intended them to see the light of day, let alone send them unsolicited to your friend. You didn’t exactly mind the idea of Saitama seeing you naked but this is not how you intended that to ever play out. He had never given you any indication that he was interested in you either other than a few offhanded jokes, but you had always taken them at face value, jokes.

Frantically this time, you scrambled across the floor towards your phone hoping that the second image that was sent was just a meme or at the worst a screenshot of the most personal conversation you’ve had about your feelings for Saitama with your friends. Anything but your naked torso.

You were relieved that the first image you sent was indeed the requested flyer, at least you succeeded at sending that. Your finger hovered over the second image, afraid to face the truth of whatever happened to be behind it. As the image opened, your horror increased, the only saving grace was that it was one of the more tasteful shots you had taken that night. The photo was from your neck down to your waist, you had opted to use your hand to cover your nipples and push your breasts together for what you, in that moment, considered the perfect shot. Even now, you thought it looked pretty damn good but very inappropriate considering the situation.

You were really sweating now. You tried to take a few deep breaths remembering that he did respond to the text, simply just saying “Thanks”. Maybe he was going to just let it go and act like it never happened, saving you the mortifying experience of having to explain why you sent him a half naked picture. You couldn’t actually picture Saitama being angry or disgusted with you, all things considered, if he didn’t like the picture he would probably just delete it and move on with his day. But your conscience wouldn’t allow you to personally not address it and at the very least apologize.

Your catastrophizing was cut short when you heard a sharp knock on your apartment door. Frustrated, you let out a groan and kicked your feet against the floor at the fact you had to get up again. You got to your feet and stomped over to the front door, not even bothering to toss back on your sweat soaked shirt, it was probably just some solicitor you were going to have to chase off anyway. When you opened the door and saw Saitama standing there with his bags of groceries in tow, all you could do was stand in the doorway with your mouth agape. You did not miss the way his eyes quickly ran across your half dressed body and disheveled state.

“Oi. Are you just going to stand there or are you going to let me in?” Saitama asked with an annoyed expression, shuffling his shopping bags around, “It’s like a thousand degrees out here.”

You moved aside allowing him to brush past you into your apartment. He quickly kicked his shoes off and began to make himself at home in your apartment as he usually did. It surprised you at first just how comfortable he seemed everywhere. You wondered if he ever got nervous about anything. He opened your refrigerator and started putting some of his items inside.

“I’m going to be here awhile so, I need to use your fridge,” He explained giving you a quick glance, haphazardly shoving his eggs and pork onto one of your shelves.

“Just make yourself right at home,” you replied plopping back down on the floor.

“Nice tits, by the way,” Saitama continued conversationally pouring himself the last of your iced tea, “Did you mean to send that?”

Your eyes widened and your cheeks burned with embarrassment. You couldn’t even begin to form a response to his blunt question.

“You don’t have to be weird. I liked it. I just want to know if you meant to send it,” He said as he sat down beside you, stretching out on the floor.

“Well, no. I didn’t mean to send it,” You admitted, “But, uh, I am glad.. that you liked it.”

The quiet that followed your admission was unbearable. You could hear the ice clinking together in Saitama’s glass as it slowly melted and shifted.

“Wait.. is that why you said you would be here awhile?” You suddenly questioned, breaking the silence.

He looked over at you with a blank expression, “Yeah, I thought you wanted to uh.." Saitama made a crude gesture. One of his hands making the shape of an ‘O’ with the index finger from the other hand pointed towards it, "ya know? But if you don't, that's cool too.”