Chapter Text
Pro hero Ground Zero runs a tight ship. His agency is kept clean, and potted plants haunt every corner. All employees are tough and respectful—the faint of heart don’t make it past the interview. His personal assistants are all efficient and familiar with the way things are done.
With the types of events and meetings not to shove in his schedule.
Bakugo is a hero, not the face of a cereal box.
He knows they know this.
They’ve heard it from him a thousand times.
So why is his assistant acting like such a weaselly fucking extra?
“I’m not sitting for the damn painting.” Bakugo growls. The intimidating aura washes right over his secretary’s head, who patiently tries again.
“Sir, she’s done all the big names. She already pushed back an appointment with Deku to accommodate your schedule. Besides, you cleared it yourself last week, and she’s waiti-”
“Like hell I cleared it.”
“Right here, sir.” He opens a file marked 08/17—08/21, thumbing through pages of PR proposals. A paper is extracted and slid across the table by one blue polish-tipped finger. Bakugo’s eyes flit down to his signature, aggressively inked onto the page. He crumples the paper into a tiny ball in his fist and blows it up.
“Cancel it, then.” He hisses through his teeth, turning to storm into his office.
“Wait, sir!” The door slams behind him. “She’s already in there…guess he’ll find out.”
Bakugo stalks over to his desk, pointedly ignoring whatever extra is waiting to meet with him until he can sit in his fucking chair and put up his fucking feet and fucking unwind, or whatever.
Your eyes follow him across the tiled floor and to his cushioned black rolling chair, watching with amusement as the pro hero throws himself into it and stacks his feet on the desk. You note that the gauntlets and mask are off, and decide that it might be a good idea to do the same for the painting. Make it casual. Make it approachable.
Bakugo takes a moment, revisiting that mental reminder about not swearing at people and behaving like a hero and public image.
“Who are you?” He asks, voice gruff, the space between ‘who’ and ‘are’ drawn out due to the absence of his usual filler: ‘the hell’. He’s not even looking at you.
“I’m the artist, and this is our first appointment. I hear you won’t sit for my damn painting?” You follow up with a polite smile. Shit. Was that too much sass? You’re trying to keep this job, don’t blow it. Change his mind. Red eyes narrow at you, and the soles of his boots make a squeaking noise against the desk as Bakugo readjusts. You have gained his attention and unknowingly broken the swearing barrier.
“I’m a hero. I don’t have time to lounge around for a stupid portrait. What would I even do with it? Hang it in my office? Waste of my fucking time.” He replies, giving you a proper once over and adding attractive to the short list of things he knows about you. It goes alongside annoying and artist.
“Well,” You begin, “Some of my clients hang the portrait in their office, or more generally at their agency. Others display it in their home. More recently, I’ve had several top ten heroes elect to donate the finished painting to the hero museum of Tokyo.” Bakugo opens his mouth to interrupt, but you raise a finger at him and continue talking, activating your quirk ever-so-slightly. He furrows his eyebrows angrily and shuts his mouth, surprising himself with his compliance. “In your case, several magazines have already requested to photograph the artwork once it is done for the cover shot. The museum has also asked me to inform you that they would be interested in the finished piece. Your public relations department was very keen on both fronts, but regardless, what you do with it is up to you.” Your phrasing implies that he’s already agreed, and you hope that it subconsciously helps him seal the deal. You don’t want to lose a chance to paint one of the top three heroes, especially since it’s Bakugo, and he’s fucking hot. What kind of artist passes on that?
He snorts.
“I can just do another fucking photoshoot to get PR off my back. It would take half the time—”
“Just a photoshoot? I have to admit, Bakugo—” The look on his face tells you that you’re stomping on thin fucking ice— “I was under the impression that you don’t half ass things…y’know, Plus Ultra?” Holy shit, where did that confidence come from? Oh my god, just follow through, it’ll be fine. Relax.
Bakugo smirks at you and lets his blonde, spikey head fall back, staring up at the ceiling. You have a point, and the delivery of it just knocked the attractiveness level up a few notches.
“How much of my time is this shit going to take?” He asks. You’re grateful that he’s not looking at you, because your mouth is hung half open in shock. It was that easy?
“I—um, a few days…I scheduled an hour today to get down some basics about the kind of painting you want, and then tomorrow we would try to get a solid sketch down, work on composition and lighting…after that, the next day I’d start the painting process, and then wait another day to finish it up…I work with oils, so the first and second coat have to be split across two days…it’s actually rather quick, I use paints that dry faster—” You cut yourself off from the rambling and eye Bakugo, trying to get a read on his mood. It’s impossible to tell, but maybe that’s just because you get a little distracted by the way his hair is staticky and clinging to the fabric of the chair.
“Tch, fucking nerd.” He remarks, and your eyes snap back to his face as he turns to look at you again, waving his hand for you to go on. God, it should be illegal to have skin that perfect.
“Um, for the type of painting you want, we need to settle on a mood first.” You fold your hands together in your lap. “What feeling do you want to convey to the viewer? Dangerousness, confidence, mystery, hope, sex appeal?” Bakugo raises an eyebrow at the last one, the corners of his mouth tugging upwards smugly. You feel your face trying to grin back and have to fight to keep it from spreading out of proportion. The thought that it would be impossible to paint Bakugo without conveying sex appeal crosses your mind, and a short laugh sneaks out before you can stop it. After the silence continues, you speak up.
“Okay, seriously. It’s not that hard, you probably want to look all-powerful or some shit.” You whip out a notebook and pencil and look back up at Bakugo. “Come on, list some adjectives.”
“All-powerful works.” He smirks. You huff and scribble all-powerful asshole down, adding probably wants to look dangerous in the margin.
“Alright, let’s talk costume. You can choose to wear something other than your hero costume if you wish. It’s also an option to wear partial costume, like how you are now without the mask and gauntlets. They could be in the painting as a prop if you like, the options are endless. Thoughts?”
“Do whatever you fucking want, just make sure this portrait is indisputably your best.” Bakugo scoffs. The way he said it was rude, but you can’t help but feel hyped up by his words. It’ll be fun to have a little creative freedom, as well as the challenge of best portrait ever. You scribble down a few thoughts like gauntlets to the side and mask off, then consider the background. You decide on smokey for sure, maybe some red and snap your notebook closed. There’s really no point sitting and taking notes here in his office if he’s giving you free reign.
You look back up to him and jump when your eyes lock with his, the bright red intense and overwhelming. Seeking for some sort of distraction, you root around your bag for a moment before coming up with a business card, which you slide across the table.
“Um, so this is my card. Your secretary should have the address and time already scheduled out for you, but just in case, you should show up around one pm tomorrow. We’ll get started with the sketching and everything, it should only take an hour. Come dressed in your hero costume.” You say, your heart beating slightly too fast. If he’s going to be this intense the whole time, we might have a problem. You stand up when he nods, taking the card.
“I uh, I’ll go now. See you tomorrow.” Bakugo watches silently as you stand and cross the room, a curious expression on his face. Soon it’s just your shadow behind the door’s frosted glass panel, and then nothing.
He’s almost looking forward to this stupid painting.