Ryoma growled softly, rubbing his forehead in irritation. Which Kami-sama did he piss off enough to land him with him for a father? Didn't life torture him enough as it was?

His Baka Oyaji had decided that Ryoma was a servant he could dish out whenever anyone needed him. As such, Ryoma had found himself spending the day moving from park to park teaching hopeless fangirls how to hit a small, green ball. And none of them could do it! I mean, really, what was so hard about hitting a ball without coming back and hitting yourself with the racket? It's not an ungraspable concept people!

So here he was, sitting on a bench, waiting for yet another fangirl. Ugh, would this day ever end?

"R-Ryoma-kun…" Ryoma looked up to see a shy girl with long hair tied back into twin braids. Oh great. Well, at least she could hit a tennis ball…sort of, anyway.

After half an hour of practice, the Ryuzaki girl was finally starting to hit balls accurately in the same general area…at least until she looked towards Ryoma. When that happened, the ball had a habit of flying off in some vague direction, usually becoming irretrievable. After three of those instances, Ryoma stopped her and they walked a little ways to buy some lunch. Ryoma, being a gentleman, paid for both of them after remembering Nanjirou's latest threat of bodily harm. It was when they were walking back to the park, sandwiches in hand, that something caught his eye.

"Ryuzaki, you continue practicing. I'm going to take care of something." He walked off, an evil smirk curling on his face.

Later that evening, Nanako, Ryoma's cousin, ducked into the boy's room to remind him of the special day tomorrow.

"What're you doing?" She asked, catching sight of his feral smirk and several magazines he was holding.

"Making Oyaji a 'present'." He grinned. At that moment, Nanako decided seeing Ryoma smile was scary and that she would do her best to prevent such a thing from happening ever again.

"Ah, I see. Well, 'night then."

"Oyasumi." (Good night.)

The next day, Nanjirou woke up and slinked through the house lazily. He scratched his chin thoughtfully as he pulled out a 'special' magazine. He grinned happily as he opened it, only to let out a screech and stumble backwards. Instead of the lovely swimsuit models and other, less-clothed models, there were large, close up pictures of sweaty men, some in tennis uniforms, with the shirt and shorts riding up high, and some wearing nothing but Speedos, showing off their hairy chests.

Nanjirou sniffed back tears at the absence of his beauties and spotted a small card inside the magazine. Hesitantly, he pulled it out, reading the short note. It was a standard card, like the type you'd buy at the local hallmark, but there were some keen differences.

Dear Father,

You're the one who forced me through all those horrid times, the one who vanished when Mom got mad, the one who corrupted his son at a young age. Hope you enjoy your special day.

Happy Father's Day,

Ryoma

P.S. Enjoy the magazine. All those pictures cost me a month's allowance.

After that, Nanjirou spent more tie hiding his magazines in places his son was less likely to come across them.

This is a day late, even though I wrote it in advance, so I feel a little stupid, but...