Fanmail, that word didn’t seem to do the gifts Saitama has been receiving justice; they’re all such thoughtful gifts. Baked goods he could devour within the minute, epsom salts that ease the occasional aches and pains that spring up after a fight. All things he’d refuse himself the luxury of buying because they’re not absolutely necessary.

He’s not used to such tender loving care, even if it’s entirely anonymous. Externally he waves it off. But internally, every time a basket with a ribbon tied atop miraculously appears on his doorstep for him to discover some mornings, he almost finds himself yanking up the basket so fast his strength damn near breaks the thing.

He doesn’t really have fans, that’s fine, but these gifts fill a hole in his heart he didn't think he had; he feels appreciated.

Another morning comes, the sun seeping through his blinds could be considered a slightly more pleasant wakeup call than a villain demolishing his wall. With a yawn he stumbles out of bed, his t-shirt lifting slightly as he scratches his stomach whilst trudging towards the door to get his mail.

He opens the door, the hinges squeaking a bit…and another noise, a familiar rustle of ribbon. His eyes go from bleary to inquisitive in the fraction of a second and his gaze lands on a certain someone placing a basket at his door, a very familiar appearing gift basket.

Could this be his supporter? It has to be, right? I mean, there’s only one.

“Uh, hello,” he murmurs curiously. Yes, the perfect first impression.