#flash ficiton

"Well, hello there, m'am," Lihito called from across the parking garage. "Did you come to cheer me on? A Superman can always use the support of his Superwoman."

"She's your competitor, stupid," Mr. Yoshitaki said, annoyed.

"My competitor?"

Lihito took another look at the woman in front of him. She was built, standing at a rather impressive height for a female with a look in her eyes that could take out half the lights in the city with a single glance. Yeah, she was good looking, but once Lihito was done with her, she'd be nothing but butcher scraps on the floors of Yoshitaki's newest investment.

Approaching his opponent gave Lihito a rush of adrenaline, as if he were mere centimeters away from a lioness protecting her cubs. He couldn't deny that there was an additional tingle in his stomach at the thought of playing around with Kengan's first female fighter. Yamamoto stepped between the two giants, hand raised and ready to announce the match. Lihito brought his fists to his chest, more than ready to land some quick hits to her pretty face.

"Fighters! At the ready!" Yamamoto called out.

Lihito chuckled, "it's a shame I gotta mince such a pretty face. I'll be sure to bring flowers to your hospital room."

The female fighter remained silent.

"Playing hard to get, eh? All well," Lihito said, but was struck hard under the chin with an uppercut from hell.

He stumbled backwards into a large puddle sunken deep into the concrete while a flurry of blows reached his head and torso. This chick was part boxer and part something else he couldn't quite figure out; that is, until he lunged at her and was thrown to the ground - judo. Lihito growled in frustration at the woman standing over him, face still as focused as it was when they first started. Aside from winning the fight, he had another goal: make her smile.

"You've got nice legs, do they go all the way up?"

A quick swipe and the female fighter was introduced to Lihito's combat secret; razer sharp cuts spread across her left calve and she quickly jumped back as to avoid any further damage. To his surprise, she didn't seem at all flustered or confused.

"Hey, kitten, what's a pig's favorite karate move? A pork chop! Funny, right?" Lihito said with a laugh that could shake the garage.

Still, nothing.

Another fast maneuver came from his competitor, rushing full speed into his torso for a takedown. Lihito felt the back of his head slam onto the concrete, dizzying him while the woman locked him in an arm bar. Every direction she pulled the fighter's arm had his nerves sparking with pain. Quick to escape the hold, Lihito cut her legs once again, causing her to drop his arm and reposition herself into a tussle of limbs.

Wrangling for dominance, a swipe cleared the side of the woman's face, cutting deep enough to expose tissue beneath her smooth skin. Lihito paused - oh shit, my bad.

Swallowed by guilt, he was easily toppled once again by a strong punch to the jaw and positioned into a triangle choke. The two struggled for some time, as the woman waited to see his eyes go blank under the pressure of her thighs crushing his head.

"Y'know," Lihito babbled incoherently, "I could make it up to you in this position after the fight..." and his vision finally faded.

"That's enough!" Yamamoto shouted, releasing her from the hold. "We have a winner!"

Mud wall

Kakashi was smiling widely. In front of him, a pert butt was sticking out of a mud wall. Iruka had protested vehemently when Kakashi had proposed the chuunin with the idea of trapping him in a wall, but he had begged and Iruka had given in. 

Iruka was shifting nervously, his ass wiggling slightly, and Kakashi’s smirk only growing wider. They were going to have so much fun. Iruka could feel the flare of chakra and hear a familiar poof of in all probability a shadow clone being created. He could hear its footsteps drawing closer, showing up around the corner of the damned wall. 

I stare blankly at the latest man telling me that I’m “too attached” to my best friend and it’s “unnerving” that I “act more couply with him than I do with my own boyfriend.” Yet another. This is perhaps the 10th guy in the last 4 years that has made this same excuse. You’d think I’m the Taylor Swift of vampires, except that my relationships are all secret so I’m obviously not using them to build my fame.

I sigh heavily, rubbing my face.

“You really feel that way? There’s nothing I can say if you truly feel that way. I’m not begging you to stay.” He stares at me, face flushed. Since vampires’ blood doesn’t flow the same way that humans’ do, it is rare that you see a vampire’s face truly flush the way his is, so it’s more than clear how unhappy he is with my response.

“You won’t even fight for me?” He asks flatly, eyes narrowing slightly.

“Do I seem the type?” I ask simply, crossing my arms. He opens his mouth to retort but then closes it and walks away toward the door. When he reaches it, he stops, resting his hand on the knob, and turns toward me.

“You would fight if it was him.” I feel my face heating up in a blush, one of the very few times that a vampire will feel warm to the touch. And one of the only times, unless they are wearing makeup, that there will be color on their cheeks (or if they’re from a place with darker skin, since, unlike what media tries to say, becoming a vampire only pales your skin a little bit, not completely). I fight to find the right response to his words. No, I’m not in love with him... but I really felt like this was going somewhere... not right to the place where all of my past relationships have gone. But here we are, having the same discussion that I’ve had with every one of my other exes.

He watches my face closely for only a moment before turning and finishing his trail out the door. I simply stand still, watching his retreating back.

--

I find myself lying on my back, stomach gurgling. I haven’t fed in a week. We’re supposed to be hosting The Show, but my heart just isn’t in it. Am I doomed to live my life alone? I know that I have a reputation to maintain. I have a public persona to maintain and if people see me avoiding Nane, they will think we’re in a fight, which will either destroy or make our relationship career.

I hear a loud, firm knock at my door and without warning, Nane’s voice.

“Liz? Are you in there?” I’m silent. I’m not ready to fake a relationship. I can’t do this right now. My relationship with my best friend is what is causing me to remain single all this time. I want to be with someone. I don’t want to be single, in a fake relationship my whole goddamn life.

The knocking ensues and eventually, I find myself sitting up.

“Nane, leave,” I say simply, forgetting that he has his own key to my place (to keep up appearances and because we are just that good of friends). I don’t forget for long, as  he is soon in my place, finding his way to the room where I’m staring blankly at a black television screen. He frowns and sits next to me.

“Are you okay?” He asks quietly. I tense but offer no response to his concern. I don’t want to admit that I want to fall in love. The only time that I confess this feeling is when I get so intoxicated that I actually consider quitting the public scene in order to seek a true, meaningful relationship. For as long as Nane and I are as close as we are, I will never find the love that I want.

He frowns as if he’s reading my mind and offers to wrap an arm around me, but I scoot away.

“Don’t,” I say simply, tensely. He frowns but remains still, respecting my wishes. I slowly glance up at him.

“Why,” I say quickly. He frowns. We’ve had this discussion a time or two. And by that, I mean every time this situation happens. He lets out a little sigh.

“C’mon, Liz. Try to relax and we’ll have some ice cream and popcorn like you like it. And watch sappy love movies.” My eyes start to water as I laugh emotionally.

“Can you imagine what would happen if all of our fans saw me being like this over another man?” I ask, shaking my head. He pulls my face up to look into his eyes with his index finger, gazing deep into mine.

“Who cares?” I feel my heart leaping from my chest, even though I haven’t ever actually felt what it was like to have a beating heart. He studies my eyes closely. “Put the movie on. I’ll make the food.” He kisses my cheek, making my stomach feel like butterflies but I simply mutely nod and then turn on the television set to turn on the movie we watch traditionally when I go through exactly this situation.

Soon, he comes into the room with a bowl of popcorn and a carton of ice cream and a spoon to share. When I get like this, we cuddle and watch the same movie every time. It’s like our little tradition when my heart is broken.

And you know what the best part is?

“Maybe less abbreviated,” Bruce acknowledged with a wry nod.

“The elder boys all had plans amongst themselves; Miss Cassandra is substitute teaching a dance class; Miss Stephanie is attending an evening lecture for extra credit. Master Damian is in the library with Kiran. They requested dinner on trays.”

“Hn,” Bruce said, chewing. He swallowed. “What are they working on?”

“I believe Master Damian’s freshman research project presentation is the focus of their efforts,” Alfred said. “Beyond that, you’d have to ask them.”

Bruce narrowed his eyes. It was absolutely certain that Alfred both knew the topic of Damian’s project and was intentionally denying him the information. He sighed.

“What are your plans for tonight?”

“I thought a bottle of wine and joyriding were in order,” Alfred said calmly, sipping water.

“Take a fake ID if you do. I’d like to avoid a scandal,” Bruce said, stabbing a mouthful of salad with his fork.

“If you insist, Master Bruce,” Alfred said with a tone of resignation.

A few minutes later, Bruce stood.

“I’m going to go see what Damian is up to,” he announced. “I can take care of my plate, Al. Take the night off.”

“Very well,” Alfred nodded his head and settled back into his seat. “I won’t argue.”

Bruce stopped long enough in the kitchen to put his used dishes in the dishwasher and then he headed for the library. Damian had barely mentioned the presentation even though Bruce knew, or assumed, it had been taking a lot of his time and thought.

As a rule, school was not Damian’s favorite place, but when it came to visibility of any kind, the boy tended to be precise and thorough– he never wanted to look stupid or ill-prepared. Bruce himself couldn’t remember how much he’d cared about the yearly presentation, only that he had cared some. One of Gotham Academy’s methods for producing high-achieving students had been for decades now to require a formal, year-long research project for each year of high school and the presentation was the first pitch to get the approval of the teachers’ board.

Bruce was fairly certain his presentations were still tucked away in a box somewhere, kept no doubt by Alfred. The older man tended not to be exceptionally sentimental but carefully catalogued and saved anything deemed important.

As he approached the library, he could hear conversation muffled through the nearly-shut door and it took him a moment to place the language as Urdu. He knocked, lightly, and pushed the door open without waiting. Alfred the cat nudged past his ankles and out into the hall.

Damian was sitting on the floor with a sketch pad, surrounded by different drawing pencils and erasers. Titus and Malcolm were asleep on the couch, and Bruce frowned but didn’t tell them to get down.

“Hullo, mate,” Dev said cheerfully, from his spot on the rug across from Damian. He had a stack of brain scans on one side and thick bundles of stapled paper on the other, and was sitting cross-legged trimming pieces of colored paper. A trifold board was propped, open, against the desk.

“How’d you get roped into this?” Bruce asked Dev, standing next to Damian so he could peer down at the sketch blooming across the page under Damian’s rapidly moving charcoal pencil.

“Roped?” Dev sounded offended, but only mildly. “I was invited. I’m here as a professional adviser.”

Bruce looked at the square of pink cardstock Dev was cutting with orange kitchen scissors.

“Professional advisor,” Bruce repeated, raising an eyebrow.

“I am conducting a study on the psychophysiological benefits of pet ownership,” Damian said without looking up or pausing in his work. The shape emerging was the profile of a dog. “I asked Dr. Devabhaktuni to assist me.”

Bruce, for a moment, felt a pang of irrational jealousy. Damian hadn’t even told him what projects he had considered, much less asked for help, and he wondered if it was his own fault for making himself or appearing unavailable.

“Bloody hell, but your school is posh,” Dev said, half to Bruce and half to Damian, while turning a right angle with the scissors. “We’d a science fair when I was in secondary and I think I did something about sugar content in fizzy drinks.”

“That seems unnecessary,” Damian said, switching pencils. “The content is labeled.”

“Honestly, I didn’t care much. I just liked being at school the extra hours. And it was an excuse to talk my mum into buying me Fanta,” Dev said with a shrug.

Damian stopped and looked up at him.

“You liked school?”

“It was bloody better than being at home,” Dev said casually, as if it was an easy thing to say. Bruce had known him long enough to know that Dev often sounded nonchalant about things that meant a great deal to admit; he didn’t know if Damian was aware of this. Damian was good at reading bodies but often missed social tone.

Bruce knew what that felt like.

“I hate school,” Damian said, resuming his sketching. Bruce sat down on the floor with them and loosened his tie. He leaned back against the couch and scratched Titus behind the ears when the dog edged his head closer to Bruce’s.

“It’s a sodding good thing I didn’t,” Dev said, switching out pieces of paper for an uncut one. “I went for over twenty years. And now I’ve the skills to trim shapes.” He grinned at Bruce and handed him a stack of cardstock. “Backing squares. Can you manage helping?”

“Maybe. Let’s find out,” Bruce said, sitting up and taking the offered paper and extra pair of scissors.

“Did she buy you the Fanta?” Damian asked in the lull that followed, the scratch of pencil and the snip of scissors filling the quiet library.

“And five others. It was brilliant. I wish it’d worked more than once.”

“Father,” Damian said, looking directly at Bruce for the first time since Bruce had entered the room. Bruce glanced up from the square he was cutting freehand. “How was your day at work?”

“No, Damian.”

“That does not answer my inquiry about your day, which was a polite–”

“Work was fine. The answer is no,” Bruce said firmly, biting back a smile. For someone so intelligent, Damian was still glaringly obvious sometimes.

Damian frowned and looked down at his sketch.

“I didn’t ask.”

“You don’t have to. I know what you were thinking.”

“We have plenty of space,” Damian protested. “I take more than adequate care of Titus and Malcolm.”

“No,” Bruce said again.

“I had nothing to do with this bloody scheming,” Dev said with a note of alarm. “Just in case I was falling under suspicion.”

“It would be beneficial for research,” Damian insisted. A normal child might whine or beg, but Damian resumed sketching and took on an authoritative tone, as if he assumed the upper hand in the discussion.

Bruce resisted the urge to sigh. He didn’t want this to turn into an argument but he also didn’t want Damian to feel unrestricted or without boundaries. He’d come a long way in the past few years but he still needed restraint.

“You could volunteer at the shelter,” Dev said, picking up the brain scan images and flipping through them. Bruce was not the kind of man to shoot off grateful looks but he hoped the slight nod he gave conveyed it enough.

“Tt,” Damian said.

Titus put his paw on the back of Bruce’s head and Bruce turned around and patted his belly. Damian sighed.

“I suppose that would be more beneficial to a greater number of animals,” he conceded.

“Call tomorrow,” Bruce said, turning back to the paper squares. He looked at the last one he’d cut. “I don’t think I’ve done this since Jay was in school.”

Years ago, that wouldn’t have been something he could bring himself to say. Even recognizing that made it feel like a difficult admission.

“What did Zombie Boy research, then?” Dev asked, as if actually curious. “He’s been sending me snarky doctor jokes for weeks now. I’d love to have some material to throw back at him.”

“Social studies project,” Bruce said. “He didn’t want to ask for help but he had a cold and kept falling asleep on the floor.”

“Weak,” Damian commented without much bitterness, more from habit Bruce thought than actual derision.

“Oi, there,” Dev said with a laugh. “Sodding big attitude from someone still small enough for children’s Tylenol.”

Bruce chuckled and reached out to tousle Damian’s hair. He half expected Damian to duck away, but he didn’t.

“Thank you both for your assistance,” Damian said stiffly, lifting the sketchpad to study the dog he’d drawn.

“It’s good,” Bruce said, looking at it with him. Damian turned quickly to look at him and there was a faint flush on his cheeks.

“Thank you,” he said again, less stiffly but far more quietly.

Dev set a brain scan image next to Damian.

“C’mon then,” he said. “You sodding promised. My office walls are far too bare.”

“What if I need a break?” Damian asked, flipping the page in the sketchpad.

“I’m merciless and demanding,” Dev answered easily. Bruce snorted and Dev ignored him.

“What’s your rate for commissions?” Bruce asked seriously. He was pleased to see the tiny quirk of a smile tugging on Damian’s face.

“I don’t know if you can afford it,” Damian answered.

“Too bad,” Bruce sighed, an exaggerated noise.

“It’ll have to be a gift,” Damian said.

Bruce nodded.

“When you have time,” he said. “School first.”

“Tt,” Damian answered, sounding amused.

“He doesn’t speak for me, mate,” Dev said, stretching out on his back on the floor. “I don’t care about your education.”

“Tea?” Alfred asked, poking his head into the room.

“I thought I told you to take the night off,” Bruce replied, turning. Alfred was in khaki slacks and a tweed jacket and a tam instead of his usual suit.

“Tea is not work,” Alfred said. “And I’m off to pick up Miss Cassandra soon.”

“Damian and I will go,” Bruce said, straightening the stack of squares with a tap against his knee. “Stay and have tea with Dev.”

“You’re just full of making bloody decisions for everyone else, aren’t you?” Dev asked without lifting his head.

“Yes,” Bruce agreed. “Any objections?”

“None here,” Alfred said. “Kiran?”

“I will go,” Damian said to Bruce, “but only if I am suitably bribed to leave my work.”

“Milkshakes?” Bruce suggested.

“Dr. Devabhaktuni, I will finish your sketch tonight,” Damian said, lining up his pencils and sliding them into a wooden case.

“Fair enough, mate,” Dev said amiably. “Tea sounds lovely.”

Bruce stood and both dogs whined. He patted them once each and the put both pairs of scissors on the desk.

“Extra whipped cream,” Damian said, his tone broaching no argument.