Jen

“Mmmngh..!” Your legs struggled to move in direction of your bed, almost falling down to the floor within every step you took.

But you knew that if you did crumble, it’d be agonizing and difficult to stand up again or control the thick bleeding in your belly that would be favored by gravity.

You’ve been through enough reasonless torture today. First, it was him, who got mad at you for acting too shallow and not so wifely with him, and threatened you with violence. His short, harsh words about using his hands on you kept spiraling in your head, and the anxiety you’ve consequently built up throughout the hours had only made your behavior less appropriate to his high standards. That’s when his second scolding came and when his previous words about punishment were accomplished just as promised.

Glass was his weapon.

Glass from the thin wine glasses you were peacefully sharing with him before he noticed your shaky hands and timid milliseconds of eye contact.

Glass shards that penetrated your skin like mosquito bites in multiple corners of your body, and have now unified themselves to make your whole body irritated with pain. Glass shards that had swirled themselves with your locks when he hit you in your head. It didn’t even matter to him if that was his favorite haircut on you or if you had invested hours in it to make yourself presentable to him as he had always demanded from you.

How ironic, don’t you think?

And that bigger glass shard that landed very roughly in your belly when it was turn to hit your glass of wine in your body, and he didn’t seem to realize how grave the injury was.

Just remembering that moment of him dragging you through the tips of your hair down to your chamber in the basement, despite all the pain you were already going through, while he screamed horrible words at you, or you, worming in the floor in pain while banging in the room’s metal door while screaming ‘I’m sorry’ over and over like a defenseless little prey about to be eaten, made your stomach twist itself with angst.

“You useless, USELESS wife! If you can’t even look at me properly, I won’t let you look at anything else but the gray walls of your bedroom!”

That was it. You were done for.

That was why the only torture you were willing to accept at this point was the pain you’d have to feel to get on your bed and finally rest. Somehow, you were even excited for it, unlike all the other past nights that you went to sleep wondering when would you ever get rid of him, but at least sleeping deeply thanks to its softness.

With a lot of struggle, you folded and lifted your right leg, opposite to where your injury was, landing it on your bed. Then, with an uncomfortable moan and a single arm in the bed, you forced yourself to jump and lean forward, successfully landing on the bed’s wooly sheets in a very awkward position with your back facing the roof.

Due to that favorable position, you felt even more layers of blood gushing down the hand that was trying to hold it back to your guts, which made you groan in discomfort.

Now, in a situation like yours, do you consider that injury a bless or a curse? That injury could cause you to possibly lose the movement of your legs and make you even more vulnerable to someone like him. That injury could heal normally, and no permanent damage would prevail. Or that injury could lead you to death.

…

You don’t want to die.

But at the same time…

Your logical thinking couldn’t deny that it was one of the few ways you could ever gain freedom again. And if there’s any sort of after-life destiny for your soul instead of a nothingness… you’d finally rest, right? No matter how you repelled the idea of death, a man like the 6th Fatui Harbinger makes it attractive.

After that little moment you took to think and breathe, you forced yourself to swiftly turn around, your injury now facing the ceiling while the left side of your head perfectly rested at the feathered pillow.

What a perfect position.

Relaxing, comfortable, and helpful…

If you were to truly die right now, at least you’d die with dignity. You’d die in a comfortable bed after enduring your roughest beating, without any guilt of knowing that you didn’t do that to yourself. After all, suicide was never an option to you, nor would he ever let your hands harm themselves.

And if you were to survive, it wouldn’t be as honorable as death. To wake up covered in rotting dark blood, whimpering in pain and alone in that eerie chamber with him stalking you from the door’s window or the camera he has in a tall corner of the walls.

Finally, the exhaustion weighing your eyelids finally became too overwhelming for you, so they closed, and you didn’t insist on keeping them open anymore.

Tomorrow would be a new day.

.

Pancakes, juice, biscuits, cake and fruits.

These are all, right? All her favorite breakfasts in a single tray.

She’s going to like it, I know it. And then, I’m gonna slide in some apology, no matter how crappy it is, and she’s going to accept it and praise me just as I trained her to do.

Everything will be back to normal, Kunikuzushi.

It wasn’t as bad as you think.

The heavy metal door to her chamber cranked loudly as I pushed it open, immediately finding myself staring at her laying down at the bed surrounded by dark, back facing me and being highlighted by the light of the hall I came from.

“Y/N.” I called out calmly while trying to keep my worries shoved down my throat.

And she didn’t move. Perhaps my volume was too low?

“Y/N, wake up.” Her body remained frozen in its place, no matter how much I had increased my volume.

Is she really this mad at me?

Well, I know it’s not going to be a tough to make her obey me anyway, so her silent treatment is useless.

“Are you trying to do that thing where you pretend to be asleep again so I’ll leave you alone, hum?” I finally decided to put myself inside the room, still standing as far as possible from her bed.

God, what is this awful smell of blood? Has she bled this much yesterday?

“It’s ok, don’t be shy. I know you can smell your beloved pancakes from there…” I gently shook the plate from where I was, trying to tease her into waking up.

But an annoyed sigh was all that came out of me due to her stupid, unconvincing act of being asleep.

“Listen, Y/N, I know what I did yesterday was horrible and wrong, okay?” My voice finally bursted some of my worry out of my throat, finally deciding to face the moment I most wished to avoid today, actually having to apologize. “I don’t know what happened to me, I just got really angry and…” I put my palm around my face as the embarrassment of apologizing took me over. “There’s no fucking excuse, is there?” No matter how much vulnerability and sincerity I was showing to her, she kept responding me with an awkward silence.

Isn’t she scared of doing this at all? Knowing how easy it is to anger me? Knowing how cruel my punishments can be? Using the same silence of hers was what led me to punish her yesterday? And she’s doing it again?

What happened to the third law of physics?

Every action has a reaction?

“All I’ve ever wanted for us is a happy married life, ok?! This wasn’t supposed to happen! We should just ignore it, pretend it never happened, and keep moving forward, ok?!” My voice cracked a few times as I started to vomit words.

Was me being this… pathetically apologetic and regretful loser not enough for her to acknowledge me? Isn’t she noticing the sadness in my tone?

“It would be easier to achieve if you were more collaborative!” Neither did harsh, unfair words work with her.

I sighed in annoyance, giving up on both alternatives of communication.

“Ever since I met you, I felt alive. It felt like I’d found peace for once in my life. I couldn’t just let this rare opportunity to slip away from me, Y/N, you’d never understand it, but you’re what has been keeping me more sane than ever. No mater if you hate me, repel me, I need you, Y/N. The more you stay with me, the better of a man I become, the better of a husband I become, the happier you become! You know it! You’ve seen it with your own eyes! How I treat you compared to the maids?! To the other Harbingers?! To my soldiers?!” I could feel even more worry rise to my brain as she still refused to acknowledge my existence.

But I’m being romantic. I’m confessing how deep and true my passion for her is, yet, it’s like I’ve never even opened the door in the first place. Isn’t this what a common human like her would want to hear? A man who loves her every cell and is willing to do anything for a fraction of reciprocation?

Have I hurt her this bad? Have I truly broken her trust for me with I did that yesterday?

“For fuck’s sake, can you acting like a bitch and fucking look at me?! I’m talking to you!!” Not even insulting you was making you move. “I’M DIRECTLY APOLOGIZING TO YOU!” I screamed from the bottom of his lungs while waving his arms to call her attention, expecting her to at least flinch in fear since I know Y/N didn’t like it when I was screaming at her.

But as I saw her body kept itself immobile, my anger finally reached its boiling point.

“I swear to God, do you want to be punished again?! You think you can just make me speak all of that bullshit and ignore m—!” I stormed in her direction, dropping the plate carelessly in the floor, my arm immediately reaching to your shoulder and pulling it to his eyes.

And the sight that was revealed to him made him swear his artificial body had stopped working for a few seconds.

Not a single muscle of your face moved, accentuated by an extremely pale skin tone on it compared to your normal one.

But the thing that most pulled his eyes’ direction was the big stain of blood in your belly.

Scaramouche froze in his spot. He wasn’t breathing or moving, he was just staring at your body. It made it easier for his consciousness to remember more about yesterday’s incident.

“Scara, please! I’m bleeding a lot! Can you please give me one towel?! O-Or anything to stop the bleeding?! Sca—… Darling, pleeeeease!!” The bangs at the door, the desperation in your voice, your pathetic body knelt down like a dying worm, begging for his mercy…

Was this why you were calling for him? Because of this gigantic pool of blood in your belly? But yesterday, when he heard those cries, all he thought was how annoying it was, and how he proudly ignored you with a sadistic smirk in his lips. Watching you beg for his mercy was somehow pleasant to him, after all.

He quickly shook his head back to reality. Thinking about those seconds made him feel the knot in his stomach tighten with more guilt.

“… Y… Y/N..?” He shook your shoulder gently, and the result was obvious, you didn’t respond.

He scoffed.

You were a good actress, weren’t you? You might even get a prize for it after being punished for tricking him so meanly. There was no way your soul had faded away from your corpse, you were either acting or just passed out because of the amount of lost blood!

Right..?

Scaramouche’s anxious hand immediately obliged to its instinct and placed itself on top of the left side of your chest, right on top of your heart… your paralyzed heart.

“Y/N…” His voice came out as a vulnerable mewl, one that would get worse every second he didn’t see you answering him. “Y/N.” He placed both his hands in each shoulder of yours and shook them lightly. “Y/N, wake up.” His voice was firm in its order, but worry had taken his voice chords, cracking its every syllable.

But all you did was bob up and down with his movement with no resistance at all. It almost seemed like you were a real-size doll in his hands.

“Y-Y/N, I know you’re awake.” He called your name like prayer, as he still found some hope to reach a hand to your eyelids and force them open while the other barely broke your shoulder’s bones with its grip.

But the direction of your stare was far from being directed at him.

“Ha… ahaha…” He couldn’t help but scoff at you in pure nervousness. “You aren’t…” He couldn’t bring himself to say the god-forsaken word. The one thing he hoped you to avoid at any cost… your death.

“Y/N, wake the fuck up!” His hand gave up in your eyes and went back to your shoulder, shaking you more violently then before, his eyes hopefully searching everywhere for any bit of movement.

But you simply just wouldn’t move a muscle.

He looked down at the big pool of blood in your lower belly. Rage consumed him as he violently moved his hand to pull your shirt upwards, raging at your stupid circulation system that pumped blood out of you instead of your veins and arteries, angry at the the glass that dared penetrate your beautiful skin without his consent and take you away from him.

“No, no, no, no…” He couldn’t believe he allowed himself to think such a thing. You? Taken away from him? Like this?!

An idea rose to his mind as soon as he thought of that idea.

This was all caused by him. His negligence, his sadism, his lack of empathy and sensibility, his obsession, his thirst of blood, his obnoxiousness.

“Y/N, wake the fuck up!” Scaramouche’s patience was wearing thin. “For Tsaritsa’s sake, no..!” And his lips were starting to shake with his rising rage.

How could’ve he ignored your pleas yesterday?

How could he feel pleasure when he saw all that blood and all those tears coming out of you? His precious princess that he had fallen in love with so badly? That mere common girl that he transformed into a public figure by being his wife.

“You hid this away from me… YOU DID THIS TO ME!” Finally, his voice couldn’t be held back to a normal volume anymore as he begun shaking your shoulders up and down too. “WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS TO ME?! WHY, WHY, WHY, WHY?! I GAVE YOU EVERYTHING THAT YOU WANTED!” His own Electro delusion even tinkled in purple as he raged on you.

You were actually dead.

You had actually distanced yourself away from him to a place he couldn’t reach.

But Scaramouche was fighting his best to not accept it. It was written all over your face that your soul was gone, but he wanted to gaslight himself that you were still just asleep.

Although his hopes were admirable, it simply didn’t work. It would never work for someone as pessimistic and honest like him.

In search of comfort, he threw himself against your body and finally let those hanging tears in the corner of his shiny purple eyes to fall, and he begun whimpering nonstop like a little kid on your and screaming in your shoulder.

“Please, please, please, please..! You can’t go, YOU CAN’T GO! Not yet, please! Not yet!” He rubbed his forehead in the crook of your neck, wiping his salty tears in you mercilessly, but no sign was returned to him. “Oh, Archons, please! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! Anything but her, please! ANYTHING BUT HER! My love… oh, my love..!” His hands slid under your back and he hugged your body like a piece of wet porcelain as he pathetically abandoned his hatred for the Gods and begged for their mercy upon his sins.

But at the same time, he couldn’t help but claw his fingernails into your skin. But he immediately regretted it as soon as he realized he was hurting you even after you died of pain. Scaramouche gave up, and instead one of his hand climbed up to your head and started fixing your hair that was so ruthlessly ruined, trying to somehow bring your dignity back.

“Don’t leave me, please..! Don’t leave me! I’ll fix you, my love… I promise! I’ll fix everything!” What was he thinking would happen as he talked to your dead corpse? That the ‘power of love’ would suddenly make you awaken again and forgive him?

Has he just realized how much your words and your forgiveness truly mattered to him? Or was it that now that he didn’t have access to it, he was starting to crave for it like a drug-addict?

He didn’t mean it. He swore on his pathetic life. It was an accident. It wasn’t his intention hurting you. It wasn’t his intention hurting you enough to permanently take you away from him.

“I’m so sorry I left you here, darling…” Just to imagine the weigh of his actions and its consequences… you in an agonizing pain, thrown in a freezing-cold floor, completely unappreciated and unloved by him despite all your previous efforts… it made something inside his chest, right where his so-desired heart was supposed to be at, to burn. “Oh, Archons!” How human of him to be unable to bare the power of his own imagination. Could he even call himself a failed puppet project anymore? What kind of puppet, especially a flawed one, cries and grieves death like this?

How come does his sister, the Shogun herself, view death as simply the end of life, while he interpreted death so much more dramatically?

After all, he could’ve avoided it. Scaramouche could’ve saved you like a true hero.

If he decided to open the door to your chamber, bring some towels and force your bleeding back to your belly, called an ambulance, and let some group of surgeons do their job, instead of neglecting you for his own pleasure, you’d still be alive. Your chest would be moving up and down to breathe, your eyes would still be blinking every few seconds and your arms would be embracing him back at this very moment.

Maybe you would’ve even learned how to be more grateful to him, or suffered some sort of amnesia that would’ve let him rebuild your relationship with him but by bit in a natural way without needing to use any sort of violence.

“Thank you for saving me, my dear!” Your voice sounded so sweet in his imagination compared to how he heard you crying last night.

Were your last words pathetic begs for help? How undignified of you. How could’ve he ever let those be your last words? You died hating him instead of loving him.

Scaramouche attached and curled his limbs all around your body like a parasite. He knew it would probably take hours for him to find energy to get up again, so at least he wanted to spend those house by your side, mourning and grieving his own choices. It didn’t matter to him if it was creepy to cling to a cold dead corpse, he still held you tight if he needed you to live. It didn’t matter if your body’s warmth had ceased long ago, or if your arms wouldn’t even try hugging him back, he could still perfectly imagine himself being hugged by you thanks to the few memories he has of you doing so.

To him, you were wearing his favorite nightgown and acting very passionate about being his ‘head-patter’, caressing every inch of head, down to every tip of his purple locks while your mouth whispered sweet words, while the both of you laid down in his bedroom’s bed, instead of the situation you were actually in at the moment. All of your hair and clothes stained and ruined, your skin smelling like raw, bloody flesh, and your unresponsive and unloving to him.

Why would he ever want to leave that beautiful, utopian dream? Only to face the reality right in front of him? No. He didn’t want that.

Could he just die there? Never open his eyes again and let himself rot with you? Could he set fire to that beautiful mansion given to him by the Tsaritsa and let himself agonizingly burn to death with you and finally find peace after centuries of suffer? Compared to the burning pain in his chest, at this point, he believed the fire wouldn’t be enough to make him feel no more pain. But he probably wouldn’t be able to anyway. Now that he’s a Fatui Harbinger, his life wasn’t as useless as before, and while he was weaker than Dottore, he’d never die and rest in peace.

More tears ran down his cheeks. He truly had no other option rather than accept all that fire in his chest and let it consume him.

Maybe he could temporarily give you away to that scientist scum, Il Dottore, and beg for his help in exchange of anything, even his own life. In the end of the day, he would prefer you living without him, rather than letting himself live without you. His preference didn’t matter anymore, though, he was already living that dystopian situation of living without you. It has been a matter of minutes and he’s already finding himself developing a depression. Was that how bad it was to be without you? Was that how the rest of his pathetic life would be like? Wanting to die every day?

Why? Why did he ever chose to hurt you in the first place? This was all his fault. The memory of him willingly grabbing that glass of wine and smashing it against your head couldn’t stop playing itself over and over again no matter how disgusted he was of it or how much he tried to replace it with better thoughts.

How ironic. He promised himself he’d hate humans forever, that he’d never succumb to the mere bits of humanity inside him, and yet, he had made the most human mistake of his life, and having the most human reaction because of it.

Not even the incoming flies that flew around the room felt comfortable of taking advantage of your dead corpse with him nearby you.

Taglist: @shyentsfoundherink @the-stinky-winky @kindofshyent @bigmantiddys @goofy-ego @sasuri123 @gaboplaydespacito @alatusorrow @luminieee @toobytub

itoshi rin

rin scores, as usual – sharp, clinical, no-nonsense. a small fist pump, a calm jog back. to everyone else, it’s just another point. to him, it’s all routine. 

until he hears a collective sound from the crowd that makes his brow furrow. confused, he glances up at you, and your hand is covering your mouth, tears in your eyes. 

then he notices it. a tiny, wobbly body stumbling across the grass. his baby. walking. 

rin literally stops moving. his chest feels like it got punched. in front of tens of thousands, he suddenly looks like a deer in headlights. 

then he kneels. doesn’t even think about it – he just drops down onto the field, arms wide open, eyes locked on the small little steps. 

the baby toddles right into him, and the moment they collapse against his chest, the mask breaks. rin smiles. soft, trembling, so raw that the cameras immediately zoom in. 

he lifts the baby gently, presses his face into their tiny shoulder, and for the first time in his career, he forgets the game completely. 

you’re crying in the stands, and rin looks up at you with this fragile, almost shy grin, mouthing “they walked to me.” 

later in the locker room, teammates tease him about the viral clip. rin pretends to be annoyed, but secretly replays it on his phone over and over. 

itoshi sae

sae barely celebrates his goals – he jogs away with that unreadable expression, ignoring the crowd’s wild cheers. same old routine. 

but this time, the energy shifts. the cheers feel different. sharper. louder. when sae glances up at you, he sees your eyes wide, your hands pointing toward the grass. 

then he sees it. his baby. on their feet. walking. and not just walking, but walking toward him. 

his cool facade cracks immediately. sae blinks, stunned, before slowly sinking to one knee, like he doesn’t trust his legs to hold him steady. 

the baby stumbles right into his chest, and sae catches them with a rare, full-bodied laugh – a sound so soft and unguarded that even his teammates look shocked. 

he presses his forehead to theirs, whispering something only the baby can hear: “you did it, huh? you came to daddy first.” 

the cameras go crazy. the stoic genius, looking absolutely smitten, holding his baby like the whole world just stopped existing. 

then sae stands, baby balanced on his hip like it’s second nature, and casually waves at the crowd like “yeah, what about it?” as if his life wasn’t just changed forever. 

later, he mutters to you, “i’m glad it was me. their first steps… i wanted it to be me.” 

nagi seishiro

nagi scores his goal almost lazily, jogging back while scratching the back of his neck, looking like he’d rather nap. he’s just about to yawn when he hears the stadium erupt. 

he figures they’re just replaying his strike on the big screen, but then he sees it. the tiniest human alive wobbling across the pitch, arms flailing, legs shaky. 

nagi’s mouth falls open. “eh? are they… walking???” 

by the time his slow brain catches up, the baby’s halfway there, determination in every little step. nagi finally drops to his knees, arms open. 

“come on, lil one. almost there… don’t make me move too much, yeah?” he coaxes them like it’s some high-stakes video game level. 

the baby toddles straight into his arms, and nagi scoops them up with a soft “good job, sleepyhead,” collapsing backward onto the grass with them on his chest. 

the crowd is shrieking, the cameras are zoomed in, but nagi doesn’t care. he just strokes the baby’s hair and whispers, “you’re cracked at walking already. must be in the genes.” 

then he falls flat on the ground with the baby still on top of him, refusing to stand until a ref tells him he has to. 

mikage reo

reo thrives on the drama of scoring. he spreads his arms wide, soaking in the spotlight, pointing up at you and the baby in the stands. 

but when the crowd suddenly explodes in a different kind of cheer, reo turns to see his baby wobbling their way across the grass. 

he lets out the loudest gasp known to man. “NO WAY. IS THIS REAL?!” and he’s off, sprinting full-speed toward them like he just got subbed in again. 

he drops to his knees, clapping, coaxing, cheering, “that’s it, angel, come to daddy!!” like it’s the final minute of a match. 

when the baby finally toddles into his arms, reo scoops them up, spinning dramatically until both of them are dizzy. “THEY WALKED TO ME!! FIRST STEPS!! WITNESSES, ALL OF YOU!!” 

he points at the commentators’ booth, screaming, “SAY IT!! PUT IT IN THE RECORDS!!” and sure enough, the highlight reel later includes “reo’s baby’s debut.” 

he spends the rest of the match bragging – half to you, half to the crowd – that his baby’s a natural athlete. “must be the mikage genes, babe. they’re born to shine.” 

you’ll never hear the end of it. 

shidou ryusei

shidou’s fresh off scoring his trademark ridiculous goal – sliding across the grass on his knees, arms out, screaming like a banshee. the crowd’s already wild, but then he hears a different kind of scream ripple through the stadium. 

he turns and spots a tiny little body wobbling toward him on two legs for the very first time. his baby. taking steps. right into the chaos. 

shidou instantly loses it. “OH HO?? LOOK AT MY LITTLE MONSTER!!” his grin is sharp and huge, teeth bared, like he just won ten championships. 

he flops down flat on the grass, chest pressed to the ground, arms open like a lunatic goalie. “COME ON, TINY DEMON!! DADDY’S HERE!!” 

the baby waddles and stumbles, but with shidou’s insane cheering (“YESSS, THAT’S IT, LITTLE KILLER!!”), they manage to toddle straight into him. 

shidou screams like he just got the winning shot, rolling across the grass with the baby in his arms. “YOU SEE THAT?! FIRST STEPS ON THE PITCH, BABY!! BORN LEGEND!!” 

the crowd can’t decide whether to laugh or cry, but the cameras catch everything: the unhinged striker kissing his baby’s cheeks and holding them up like a trophy. 

afterward, he proudly brags to you, “they walked to me first. obviously. who else would they pick, huh?” 

karasu tabito

karasu’s always a bit of a showman – after his goal, he points straight at you in the stands with that cocky grin, mouthing, “that was for ya.” 

but then he notices the crowd’s noise shift. sharper, higher-pitched squeals. he follows the pointing hands, and his jaw drops. 

his baby is wobbling across the pitch like they’ve been training for this. legs shaky, arms out, determination in their little face. 

karasu bursts out laughing, crouching down and clapping loudly. “ohh, let’s go, little crow!! that’s it! one foot in front of the other, atta baby!!” 

he coaxes them step by step, clapping his hands, calling their name, until the baby stumbles right into his chest. the crowd erupts like another goal was scored. 

karasu scoops them up, spins them once, then dramatically bows to the stands, holding the baby high like he just won an award. “thank ya, thank ya, my kid’s debut performance!” 

he looks up at you with a grin and shouts, “guess they like me better, huh?” though his voice wobbles because he’s fighting back happy tears. 

that clip of him kneeling on the pitch, baby in his arms, laughing with his head thrown back – yeah, it goes viral instantly. 

kaiser michael

kaiser scores, and his celebration is smug perfection – blowing kisses to the crowd, tapping the crest on his chest, soaking in his spotlight. he’s thriving in his element. 

until his spotlight gets stolen. the crowd roars, but it’s not for him anymore – it’s for a tiny little person stumbling onto the pitch. his baby. walking. 

kaiser’s smirk drops completely. his breath catches as he sees those little arms reaching for him. “mein gott…” he mutters, instantly melting. 

he kneels down right there in the middle of the pitch, ignoring his teammates, ignoring the cameras, waiting with his arms wide. “komm her, liebling. come to papa.” 

when the baby toddles into his chest, kaiser sweeps them up and spins dramatically like it’s the most romantic movie scene in history. his grin is so big and real that the entire stadium gasps. 

you’re bawling in the stands, and kaiser looks right up at you, holding the baby high in the air like a prize. then he mouths, “they chose me first.” 

the commentators go insane. social media trends with clips of “kaiser michael’s realest moment,” comparing it to a fairy tale. 

later, he tells you quietly, “i’ve scored a lot of goals, liebe. but that – seeing them walk to me – that’s my best win.” 

ness alexis

ness is already tearing up a little from kaiser’s goal (as usual), clapping, running up behind him, when suddenly, the crowd noise shifts. his heart skips a beat. 

he turns and sees his baby, his baby, waddling their way onto the grass for the very first time. 

ness lets out the softest, most high-pitched squeal, covering his mouth with both hands before rushing forward. “oh my goodness!! look at you!! you’re walking!!” 

he kneels down, arms wide, practically crying already as he coaxes the baby forward with soft little “come on, papa’s here, you can do it.” 

when the baby toddles into his chest, ness breaks instantly. he sobs, clutching them close, kissing their cheeks a hundred times, whispering “ich liebe dich.” 

the cameras zoom in on his face, red and blotchy from crying, but the crowd loves it. commentators are like, “ladies and gentlemen, ness is officially the proudest dad alive.” 

afterward, he won’t stop telling you how perfect it was. “they walked to me. they really did it. i was their first.”