[A Week Off in the Life of a Very Tired Intern | Everyone x You]
Summary: Working as a PR manager for the Hero Association wasn’t for the weak—so when you were finally granted a full week of hard-earned leave, you couldn’t wait for your spa treatments and binge-watching sessions.
When the heroes heard about your situation, though, they took it upon themselves to help you take your mind off things.
or
Over the course of seven days, you encounter a different hero determined to take care of you.
Contains: Smut | Female Reader | Mildly Dubious Consent | Fingering
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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 mid-sized 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 your supervisor, Mister Sato, had given you the contract for becoming Genos’ official manager, it was, without a doubt, the happiest, most satisfying day of your entire life, second only to your graduation day from A-City University.
Just a few more weeks, and you’d check off the very 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 a small sip of your coffee, which had long since cooled down. 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—your meager salary barely covered your rent—but hearing it said out loud was just rubbing unnecessary salt into the wound. And it was your vacation, for crying out loud; 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, fancy 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 as if in deep 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.
“I mean, 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.
✽
Even though you had made plenty of bad decisions over the course of your relatively short life, this was—without a doubt—the absolute worst one yet.
You should’ve known it the moment Saitama laid out his incredibly thin futon on the living room floor and told you to lie down. And you should've absolutely seen it coming when he pulled up a Spotify playlist for you to listen to, and the constant ad breaks between songs made it difficult to relax at all. Or, at the very latest, when the smoke of the cheap incense he lit up drifted right into your face, and you had to hold your breath to not die from sudden smoke poisoning.
Everything about this was already terrible, and he hadn’t even started yet.
You considered standing up, walking out the door, and pretending you’d never agreed to any of this, but when Saitama straddled your hips and settled down, effectively pinning you in place with his weight on either side, any thought of backing out evaporated immediately.
“Alright,” he said, cracking his knuckles. “I’ll start with your shoulders.”
There was no escaping this now.
You could only hope—or pray—that it would be over quickly.
So when his hands settled on your shoulders, thumbs pressing into the tight muscles at the base of your neck, you were surprised by the deep sigh that slipped out of you. Before you could even process it, his fingers were already working into the knots along your shoulders, kneading them with steady pressure.
Your eyes squeezed shut.
Even through your dress shirt, you could feel the warmth of his palms as his hands moved over your body; practically melting more and more into the futon with each touch.
Was this even Saitama? Had he somehow been swapped out for an actual professional while he was in the bathroom? This was better than anything you’d expected, even from someone trained, let alone him.
“Everything okay?” he asked.
You could only nod, sinking further into your arms folded beneath your head.
He hummed in acknowledgement, then adjusted his grip, pressing down with his palms before dragging the tension lower, toward your shoulder blades. His movements went on for a few more minutes, his palms working with just enough pressure at the right places, long enough for your body to loosen and almost long enough for you to drift off completely.
Then his hands moved lower; past the small of your back, ghosting over the sides of your hips, and continuing down—
Read the rest of the chapter on AO3.
