Zero Screentime
Bakugo with his daughter
He liked to say he was grateful she didn’t care for iPads. He really did. He loved that she preferred wooden playsets, plastic food, tiny registers, and absurdly detailed setups that took over the living room. What he didn’t love was the part where every single game required him. Not as a background character. Not as furniture. No. As the customer. The victim. The butler. The henchman. The unpaid intern. The emotionally manipulated participant.
It always started innocent.
“Daddy, sit here,” she’d say, already shoving a tiny apron into his chest.
“I’m not hungry,” he’d grumble.
“It’s not real food.”
“…That’s worse.”
Ice cream truck day meant he was seated on the floor, knees folded awkwardly, pretending to drive while she stood behind him ringing a bell aggressively.
“WELCOME TO PRINCESS SCOOPS,” she announced. “WHAT DO YOU WANT?”
“Chocolate.”
“We’re out.”
“…Then why’d you open?”
She ignored him, handing over a plastic cone with three different colors stacked wrong. “That’ll be five million dollars.”
“I DON’T HAVE—”
She slammed the tiny register shut. “Too late. Pay.”
Pizza house play was worse. She had a full setup: oven, menu, delivery counter, and a tiny phone that rang nonstop.
“Daddy, you ordered wrong.”
“I ordered cheese.”
“You ordered pineapple.”
“I WOULD NEVER.”
She squinted at him like a disappointed manager. “You will eat it.”
Veterinarian play was where he truly suffered. Stuffed animals lined up like patients in critical condition. He was forced to lie on the floor as the “injured customer” while she diagnosed him.
“You are sick,” she declared.
“With what?”
“Everything.”
She pressed a toy stethoscope into his chest, frowned deeply, then nodded. “You need shots.”
“I’M NOT GETTING—”
Too late. Three imaginary injections later, she patted his arm. “Be brave, Daddy. Mommy would be disappointed if you cry.”
He did not cry. He did, however, question his life choices.
Then there was mafia play.
That one… that one scared him.
She wore a tiny blazer. Sat behind a desk. Crossed her legs exactly like you. He was forced to kneel.
“You work for me now,” she said calmly.
“I literally live here.”
“You messed up,” she continued. “Now you pay.”
“With what?”
“Your loyalty.”
She slid him a plastic phone. “Call Uncle Shoto. Tell him the deal is off.”
Bakugo stared at the toy in silence, then slowly complied. “Deal’s off,” he muttered.
“Good,” she nodded. “You may live.”
It never ended. She had a bakery, a grocery store, a nail salon, a car wash, a hospital, a daycare (where he had to be the crying baby), a bank (where she refused him loans), and a hotel where he was both the guest and the staff.
And every time—every single time—he tried to escape, she’d block his path.
“Daddy, where are you going?”
“I HAVE WORK.”
“You are at work.”
“…I hate this job.”
Still, despite the complaining, the exaggerated sighs, the dramatic groans as he collapsed onto the floor for the fifth time that day, he stayed. Let her put tiny hats on his head. Let her assign him impossible roles. Let her boss him around with that familiar pout and your exact tone.
Because when you watched from the doorway, laughing softly, Bakugo knew the truth.
He’d fight villains all day without blinking—but this?
This was the role he’d gladly suffer forever.
