#atomic samurai

[suprababka]

Meeeeeeeeeeeemes :)

[bloodmoonmistress]

Opm dating headcanons! SFW

Characters: Saitama, Genos, Atomic Samurai, Metal bat, Zombieman and Mumen rider 

Will post more characters so if you don’t see your favorite stay tuned!

“Saitama”

~His dates are simple and mundane he would probably take you out to grocery shop dates. (Bonus points if you know how to bargain like Asian grandmas at a market🤭🤭)

~Secretly loves you kissing the top of his bald head even if he swats your lips away.(He WILL sulk if you actually stop)

~He’s literally human gudetama he will fall asleep on your chest just 10-20 minutes into the game or movie and his sleeping position is exactly like gudetama’s, he will rest his cheek on your chest while his arms flail and rest god knows where

~Gets even more competitive if King beats him in a game while your watching

~Master of cuddling, he will share his futon with you when it’s cold and holds you to his chest while your head is tucked under his chin and your legs tangled with his

“Genos”

~Struggle to pick your lipstick and blush shade? Don’t worryyyyy he will perform color swatching tests so it will look just perfect! Same with your color of clothes too!

~He’s the most possessive and protective he will hold you close to him 24/7 if you guys take night walks 

~Feeds the stray cat that roams outside his apartment 

~He upgrades himself just for you! Uncomfortable when cuddling? He will install synthetic skin. Need portable microwave, charger and map for travel? He will install it also as long as it is practical

~Would take you to an aquarium or a museum date anywhere that includes sciences to expand your knowledge  and he will explain the answers to your inquiries 

Atomic Samurai

~ Traditional man. He loves sake and prolly still sleeps on  tatami mats 

~ He lets you borrow his haori in some occasions but it smells like a whole herbal medicine shop in there 

~ Let’s you do anything to his hair, wash it, style it, braid it, decorate it with clips you name it!

~ Gives slow and gentle back rubs when your on the verge of slumber

~ Gives you chaste kisses in your sleep so you won’t get used to his soft side because your asleep duh 😂

Metal bat

~ Loves spoiling you and his sister( Zenko is priority 👌)

~ Hide his hair gel and hairbrush if you want to rage bait his ahh, he will flip the whole house upside down for it 😂

~ Dates with him are mostly shopping for you or for his sister, buying snacks, clothes and/or watching movies

~Would be the type to flex on purpose so you can praise him

~ Will always help and love your cooking and if your still learning he will help you do some research and give feedbacks 

Zombieman

~If you tell him to run to the store to buy pads or tampons  he will tell you to run to the store to buy cigarettes 

~Loves cuddling you to his side and scratching your head till you hum and fall asleep 

~Makes you your choice of hot drinks in the afternoon and teases you by giving you the Turkish ice cream vendor treatment 

~Let’s you practice your style of makeup on him till you get the hang of it and do it on your own face

~He’s the type to still have album vinyl and the player and sometimes uses it when he has the time and dances with you

Mumen Rider

~ SWEET BABY BOY WILL DO ANYTHING FOR YOU 🤧🤧

~Gives flowers to you every time when he finishes his daily patrol

~Loves kisses on the nose,cheeks,foreheads and shoulders

~Gets jealous easily but not in a terrifying possessive way he will whine and give hints till you notice and explain

~Loves when you praise and comforts him to distract him from his insecurities 

[mavisbasement]

i dont know what it is, i was bored, lol

[guppyscolita]

Cuntomic Samurai

[faceless-dude]

Everyone: funny chibies, hyhyhyhyhyhyhyhyhyh 🤗😜🙃

Flashy Flash: "The Birth of Venus", Sandro Botticelli (c. 1484–1486). Tempera on canvas. 172.5 cm × 278.9 cm (67.9 in × 109.6 in). Uffizi, Florence.

/sonic must have a good time swimming between dicks lol/

[hyuniemyunie]

Hello~♡ Could I please request a part 2 of the "Doubt" series? Maybe with King, Atomic Samurai, Zombieman, and maybe Iaian if that's not too many?

Love your writing! Keep being wonderful!

Doubt pt2

one punch man characters x reader

sfw

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

(ФωФ): HIIII. thank you so much, hope u like this!!<3

(i legit. LEGIT I WROTE THIS OFF OF WIKI PAGES AND PURE GOLDFISH MEMORY SO I HOPE THEYRE ACCURATE??)

⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠄･ ⋆ ･

The Heart of a Hero

You never minded the sound of the "King Engine."

That ominous, thundering heartbeat that had made monsters turn tail and run before even trading a blow—it didn’t scare you. Not anymore. Not once you realized what it really was.

A heart.

A real one.

An anxious, racing, overworked, painfully human heart.

King's heart.

---

He wasn’t what people thought he was. You’d known that for a while.

To the world, he was the strongest man alive. The “Ultimate Hero.” The one who didn’t even need to lift a finger because his reputation alone was enough to end a battle before it started.

To you… he was a man who didn’t like loud noises. A man who quietly shut the bathroom door and sat there breathing into his palms when the pressure got too high. A man who jumped when the kettle clicked off and got nervous playing fighting games in front of you because he was so sure he’d mess up and embarrass himself.

He was your man. And even if he couldn’t level a mountain, he held your heart with such fragile, terrified reverence that it almost made you cry sometimes.

---

Tonight, it was storming outside. The rain clattered against the windows in wild gusts. You were curled up in bed under too many blankets, soft pajamas on, the smell of tea still faint in the air. You’d had a good night.

King had been quiet.

You noticed it during dinner—how his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. How he kept picking at his food and glancing over at his phone like he was waiting for bad news. When you asked if everything was okay, he said, “Yeah, just tired.” Which, in King-speak, meant “I am spiraling internally and need to be comforted but am too ashamed to ask.”

So you waited until he came to bed.

He took forever, brushing his teeth, fiddling with the light switch, staring at the living room like he expected it to disappear if he blinked. When he finally came in, he climbed into bed like he didn’t want to disturb you. Like he was trespassing in his own space.

You rolled over and pulled him into your arms before he could finish adjusting the blanket.

“Talk to me,” you whispered. Your voice was quiet. Gentle. No pressure. Just warmth.

He tensed at first. Then slowly—so slowly—you felt his arms wrap around your waist and hold you like a man clinging to a lifeline.

“I don’t know why you stay,” he said.

Your heart cracked a little. Just a little.

“Because I love you,” you answered simply.

He shook his head. “But I’m not… I’m not him.”

“You mean the S-Class myth they made you out to be?”

He didn’t answer.

You cupped his face in your hands and kissed his forehead, then the tip of his nose, then finally his mouth. You felt his breath stutter, and not because of fear. Not this time.

“I know who you are,” you told him. “I’ve seen you cry over your game saves getting corrupted. I’ve seen you hold a stray cat in the rain for half an hour until we could find a shelter that was still open. I’ve seen you take care of me when I got food poisoning and still insisted I looked cute even though I was barfing every ten minutes.”

He let out a wet, shaky laugh.

“I’ve seen the man who gets anxious about picking the right toothbrush. Who worries that he’s too awkward, too plain, too boring for someone to really love. But King—baby—that’s why I love you. Not in spite of it. Because of it.”

He sniffed, eyes brimming. You wiped a tear away with your thumb.

“You never lie to me. You never fake being something you’re not. And even when you’re scared, you try to be brave. That’s what a real hero is.”

He finally broke.

Not loudly. Not all at once. But tears slid down his cheeks and he buried his face in your chest, arms tightening around you like he needed to feel every inch of you to believe you were really there.

You stroked his hair gently, whispering soft nothings as the storm raged on outside. You rocked him slightly, not unlike the way someone would soothe a child, and he let you. He let himself need.

And god, that made you love him even more.

---

Later, when the tears had stopped and the only sound was the thunder in the distance and the rhythm of his breathing, he looked up at you, eyes still red but so, so soft.

“Do you really think I’m worth all this?”

You cupped his cheeks again and said, “I think you’re worth more than this. But I’ll start with just loving the hell out of you.”

He smiled. Really smiled. And he leaned in and kissed you like you were the only person in the universe that had ever seen him clearly.

Because you were.

Undying Doesn’t Mean Unfeeling

He wasn’t built for softness.

He didn’t say that out loud, of course. He didn’t say most things out loud.

He lived in half-lit rooms with cracked windows and worn furniture, the kind of spaces that didn’t invite guests or good dreams. He worked late, came home covered in blood that wasn’t always his, and dropped his coat on the floor like he didn’t notice the mess he left behind.

It wasn’t that he didn’t care. It was that he didn’t let himself.

He’d been alone for a long time. Long enough that the silence didn’t echo anymore. Long enough that he’d forgotten what it felt like to be seen as anything but a weapon wrapped in human skin.

And then there was you.

You didn’t barge in. You didn’t try to change him. You just… stayed.

The first time you saw him pull a bullet out of his own chest, you flinched. Not in fear—he noticed that immediately. You weren’t scared of him. But you were worried. Shaken. Healed wounds didn’t stop your hands from reaching out to check him over, voice trembling as you asked, “Doesn’t it hurt?”

He told you the truth.

“Every time.”

And still, you stayed.

---

It was quiet tonight. That kind of deep quiet that settles over the world like a blanket of snow, heavy and dense and final. The city outside his window still buzzed with the distant sound of cars and lives he didn’t belong to, but inside? It was just the two of you.

You were curled against him on the couch, one leg slung over his, your head tucked under his chin, your hand resting gently over the place where his heart should’ve been. It beat, technically. A slow, lazy thump that felt more like a formality than a sign of life.

Your fingers idly traced the edge of the latest scar along his ribs. It hadn’t even healed yet. He hadn’t given it the chance.

“You’re not wearing your shirt,” you murmured.

“Didn’t feel like it.”

“You always wear it.”

He didn’t answer.

Your touch didn’t falter. If anything, you pressed closer. He felt your breath against his collarbone.

Zombieman—real name undisclosed, even to you—had always been careful to keep you at arm’s length emotionally. Not because he didn’t care. Because he cared too much.

Because dying was easier than hurting someone you loved.

Because what if the day came when you realized he wasn’t worth the time? What if you looked at him and saw what he saw in the mirror—someone who should’ve stayed dead a long time ago?

“What’s going on in there?” you asked softly, tapping his forehead with your finger. “You’ve been quiet all night. I mean, quieter than usual.”

He smirked faintly. “Didn’t know I had a quota to meet.”

“You don’t. But I know when something’s eating at you.”

He went still. The kind of still that came from decades of lying in morgues and crime scenes. From training himself not to move, not to breathe, not to exist until the moment was safe again.

“Talk to me,” you whispered.

And for some reason—maybe because of the way you said it, or the way your hand never left his chest, or the way he didn’t feel like a freak when he was with you—he did.

“Sometimes I forget what it’s like to feel human.”

You blinked, pulling back just enough to look at him. His eyes were shadowed. Not by lack of sleep. By everything else.

“Everything just… hurts. Physically, emotionally, whatever. It’s all a blur. People die. Friends, enemies, civilians. I get torn to shreds and put myself back together and walk away. That’s the gig. But I don’t feel it anymore. Not the way I used to.”

Your expression was heartbreak and patience all at once. “But you do feel. You wouldn’t be telling me this if you didn’t.”

He shook his head. “I feel you. That’s the problem.”

You frowned. “Why is that a problem?”

“Because it makes me weak.”

You sat up a little straighter, moving so you were straddling his lap. He tried not to react, but your closeness short-circuited his brain every time. You took his face in both hands—scarred knuckles against scarred cheeks—and held him like he was something fragile.

“You are not weak for loving someone.”

He didn’t argue. He couldn’t.

“You’re not weak for needing someone, either,” you continued, your thumbs brushing just beneath his tired eyes. “You’ve been through hell and back, Z. More than once. You’ve died. And you still come home to me.”

“I don’t know why you wait.”

“I don’t wait,” you said. “I live. And I choose you. Over and over.”

Something in his chest twisted. Not pain. Something worse. Something better.

“You deserve someone who doesn’t scare kids.”

“You save kids.”

“Someone with a real job. A normal life. A pulse that doesn’t flatline every week.”

You leaned in, kissing the corner of his mouth. “I like your weird little heartbeat.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

Your lips moved to his jaw, slow and deliberate. He held still, but you felt the way his hands trembled on your hips. You weren’t trying to seduce him. Not now. You were just being there. With him. For him.

“You’re the only person who makes me feel real,” he said, barely audible. “The only thing I want to come back to. Even when I’ve got bullets in my gut and a hole in my head, I crawl back to you. Every time.”

You rested your forehead against his. “Then stop asking why I love you. And start believing that I do.”

---

He didn’t cry. He never cried.

But when he wrapped his arms around you and held on like the world might end tomorrow, you knew. You knew.

This man, who had walked through fire, through gunfire, through every kind of hell imaginable—this man who couldn’t die—was terrified of losing the one thing that made living worth it.

You.

So you whispered to him. All night. Soft reassurances and quiet promises. Your fingers combed through his hair, traced the curve of his spine, reminded him that he was more than his body count.

You didn’t need him to be cheerful. Or perfect. Or whole.

You just needed him to stay.

And for once, he let himself believe it.

Even if his bones cracked and his skin tore and his mind frayed from the strain—he would always put himself back together.

For you.

Because maybe, just maybe…

Immortality didn’t mean being alone.

Not anymore.

Wounds You Don’t See

Atomic Samurai didn’t fall in love easily.

He wasn’t the type. Not on paper.

He was loud, cocky, and too used to being right. The kind of man who swung his blade before letting a sentence finish. He lived for the fight, and lived with the belief that he’d die in one. There wasn’t space in that kind of life for softness. For warmth. For things that made you linger too long in the morning, or forget your sword when you left the house.

That was what he used to think, at least.

Then you came along, and with every quiet kindness and patient smile, you turned his rigid, blood-soaked world on its head.

---

He wasn’t graceful about it.

The first few months of being together were like watching a dog try to walk on two legs—confused, clumsy, way too proud to admit he was fumbling every second. He didn’t know how to flirt in a way that didn’t sound like a challenge. He didn’t know how to hold hands without looking around first like he was breaking protocol. He’d show up at your apartment with a bruised jaw and a bag of oranges and claim it was “for scurvy or whatever,” then linger by the door for twenty minutes pretending he wasn’t hoping you’d invite him to stay the night.

Eventually, he got better at it. Not good—just better.

But some days, like today, he regressed a little. Slipped back into those old habits of stoic silence and sharp sarcasm, like it was easier to wear that armor than admit his insides were all twisted up in knots.

---

You found him in the living room after midnight.

The lights were dim, the window cracked open just enough to let in the cool breeze, and he was sitting on the floor with his back to the couch, sword across his lap, bottle of sake in one hand.

He looked up when you walked in, and you saw it immediately—that flicker of guilt, the shadow behind his eyes, the shame he’d never admit to unless you pried it out of him.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you asked gently.

“Didn’t try.”

You walked over and knelt beside him, pressing a soft kiss to his temple before sitting down with your knees tucked beneath you. He didn’t stop you when you leaned your head against his shoulder, didn’t pull away when your fingers curled over his.

“I had a dream,” he said after a long pause. His voice was low, rough, barely audible over the hum of the city outside. “It was one of those old fights. Deep jungle. Blood everywhere. I couldn’t move fast enough, couldn’t—couldn’t stop it. I saw myself die, and I—”

He cut himself off, jaw tightening.

You gave his hand a squeeze. “It was just a dream.”

“I know,” he said. “But the worst part wasn’t dying. The worst part was thinking, ‘You’ll be better off without me.’”

That broke your heart in a quiet, devastating way.

You turned to face him fully, taking his face in your hands, thumbs brushing against the stubble on his cheeks. His eyes searched yours—wild and uncertain, like he wanted to fight you on this but didn’t have the strength to.

“Atomic,” you said, calling him by the name he used with everyone but you. “Don’t you ever, ever say that again.”

He stared at you, not blinking.

“You think I fell in love with you because you’re invincible? You think I stay because I expect you to come home spotless and untouched every night? I love you because you're you. Because even when you’ve been cut to ribbons, inside and out, you still look at me like I’m worth living for.”

He swallowed hard, and you felt his breath hitch.

“I don’t care if your hands shake,” you whispered. “I don’t care if you have nightmares or scars or a million things you’ll never tell me. I love you through them. I love you because you’re brave enough to carry all that weight and still come home to me.”

His hand rose slowly, fingertips grazing your cheek.

“You make me feel like… I could be more than a sword.”

“You are,” you said, kissing his palm. “You’re a man. My man. The one who leaves notes in my bento even if he pretends he didn’t. The one who sits through terrible romance dramas with me just to see me smile. The one who hides his bad days because he thinks he has to protect me from them.”

“I’m not good at this,” he whispered. “Not like you deserve.”

“You’re better than I deserve,” you said, pulling him into your arms.

And this time, he let himself collapse into you. Not like a warrior. Not like a proud, legendary swordsman. But like a man who’d finally let himself fall—knowing you’d catch him.

---

The night grew quiet again. You held him close, running your fingers through his hair, humming softly under your breath. His breathing evened out. His body relaxed against yours, muscles finally releasing their tension after what must’ve been hours of carrying too much.

“You’re home,” you murmured. “You’re safe. And you’re mine.”

“…Yours,” he echoed, half-asleep, the words clinging to his lips like a vow.

Steel Beneath the Silence

You often wondered what it must have been like for Iaian before he met you.

You could picture it, far too easily—waking before dawn in a sparse, cold room, tightening his sword straps in mechanical motions, the world reduced to routine and discipline. No warmth in the walls, no clutter in the corners. Just the deafening silence of someone who had long accepted loneliness as a cost of his path.

It wasn’t sadness that marked him—it was purpose. The kind that wore at the edges of a man until he forgot how to want anything for himself.

But even the sharpest blades, left unattended, could rust.

And even the strongest swordsmen could wear themselves down to nothing without meaning to.

---

Iaian never asked for anything. Not help, not comfort, not even simple things like a cup of tea or a steady hand on his shoulder.

If he needed something, he got it himself.

If he hurt, he bore it quietly.

If he doubted, he buried it where no one could see—hidden away behind the steady mask of a knight without a kingdom, loyal to his sense of duty above all else.

You saw through it.

Of course you did.

That was why you loved him so fiercely.

---

It was late when you found him sitting outside, his silhouette outlined against the moonlight.

Sword laid across his lap, like always. Back straight, posture perfect, gaze distant. He looked like a statue carved out of old prayers and half-forgotten dreams. Still. Silent. Alone.

You stepped out barefoot into the cool night, the wooden deck cold under your soles, and approached him without a word.

He noticed you, of course. Iaian’s awareness was unshakable, even when he seemed lost in thought. His shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly as you came close, as if bracing for something—an order, perhaps, or a reprimand.

But when you simply sat down beside him, not touching yet, not demanding, just being there, you saw the tension ease, even if only a fraction.

“I did not mean to disturb you,” he said, voice low, formal even now.

“You didn’t,” you replied softly.

Silence stretched between you, but not an empty one. It was the kind of quiet that grew when two people knew they didn’t have to fill the space with words to be understood.

You glanced at his hands resting atop the blade.

Bloodied knuckles. Bandages hastily wrapped. Not fresh, but recent enough to worry you.

You frowned slightly, reaching out.

He didn’t pull away when your fingers lightly traced the edge of the cloth.

“What happened?” you asked.

“A training exercise,” he said simply. “I… miscalculated.”

You looked up at him. “And?”

His lips pressed into a thin line. His gaze remained fixed forward, as if the very act of admitting weakness would dishonor everything he stood for.

“I was… reckless,” he finally said. “I lost focus. That is unacceptable.”

You could hear it under his carefully measured words—the loathing, the self-recrimination, the brutal way he punished himself more than any opponent ever could.

You shifted closer until your shoulder brushed his. Still careful, still giving him space if he needed it. But you wanted him to feel it—you were here.

“Being human isn’t unacceptable, Iaian,” you said quietly.

He closed his eyes for a moment, and you saw the faintest tremor in his hands.

“I am supposed to be better than this,” he whispered. “Stronger. More disciplined. If I falter… I endanger not only myself but those I serve.”

“And if you break yourself trying to be perfect, what good will you be to anyone?”

His eyes snapped to yours then—sharp, startled, wounded.

You softened your voice even further, reaching up to cup his jaw with both hands, cradling him like something precious. His skin was cool under your palms, rough with scars he would never let anyone else see.

“You think your worth lies in being unbreakable,” you said, voice trembling slightly with how much you meant it. “But I love you because you care. Because you try. Because you never stop pushing, even when it would be easier to give up. Not because you're invincible.”

Iaian’s throat bobbed with a hard swallow.

“You can fall apart with me,” you murmured. “You’re allowed.”

For a heartbeat—just one—you thought he might argue. That old, stubborn pride, the one trained into him by masters who had never taught him how to heal, only how to endure, bristled at the edges of his expression.

Then—slowly, painfully—he lowered his forehead against your shoulder.

Not with a dramatic collapse. Not with trembling sobs. Just a heavy, weary lean, like he was finally allowing himself to rest for the first time in what might have been years.

Your arms slid around him, steady and warm and patient.

You sat there for a long, long time—long enough for the stars to crawl across the sky and the crickets to sing themselves hoarse. Long enough for his breathing to even out against you, slow and deep and steady. Long enough for him to believe, truly believe, that he wasn’t a failure for needing someone.

He didn’t say much. He didn’t have to.

You felt it in the way he clutched you closer when the breeze picked up. In the way his thumb traced small circles over the fabric of your sleeve absentmindedly. In the way his sword lay forgotten for once at his side, not clutched like a lifeline but set down with trust.

---

Later, when you guided him inside and coaxed him into bed, he looked up at you with something raw and unguarded in his gaze.

“Thank you,” he said.

Not formal. Not dutiful.

You smiled and pressed a kiss to his forehead, brushing a few stray locks of hair away from his face.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you promised. “Not tonight. Not ever.”

And for once, he let himself believe it.

He slept with his hand in yours.

No sword between you.

No mask.

No armor.

Just Iaian.

Just the man you loved.

[naiiissu]

Super evil guy

[potsweeta]

req from mutuals in twt