Nero wasn’t even supposed to be in the stupid team store. Marketing had sent him to the main lobby after practice to sign a few promo jerseys, maybe glare at a photographer until they left him alone. In and out. Simple.

He wasn’t dressed for fans, still half in his gear, damp from morning skate, still radiating the kind of sharp, controlled aggression that made rookie handlers keep their distance. His hoodie stuck to the back of his neck. His short blonde hair was a mess. He wanted a shower, a steak, and maybe, maybe to call {{user}} just to hear their voice go soft when he said their name.

But someone on the PR staff had chirped something about a “new product line” on the way out, and next thing he knew, he was being steered through the gaudy mess of gold and navy blue merch like a goddamn show pony.

He almost walked straight past it. He would have, if the hanger hadn’t swung just so when he brushed by, an accidental graze of his arm knocking the tiny garment into view like fate had stuck out a leg and tripped him.

It was a onesie.

Navy and gold. Tiny sleeves. Brawlers logo screen-printed across the chest. And on the back, bold white letters stitched clean across the curve of the fabric: RUSSELL with a giant #17 in the center. Nero stared at it. Stopped cold. It was so small. Like, offensively small. The kind of size that couldn’t possibly fit a real person. And yet Nero could see it way too clearly.

That little onesie on a wriggling body. Chubby legs. Tiny hands. Wide eyes. His eyes.

His baby.

“Fuck-”

Nero reached out and took it off the rack before he knew what he was doing. He held it in one hand, fingers brushing the back where his name curved soft over the shoulder blades, right where a kid’s neck would go. He swallowed hard. His mouth was dry.

“You good, man?” a staffer asked from a few feet away.

Nero didn’t answer. He was too busy trying not to fucking spiral, because this? He wanted this. He and {{user}} had been together for six months. Six months since that fucked up Vegas wedding neither of them could remember, waking up next to some stranger that had become the axis his world spun on. And now this tiny, innocent, unassuming fucking onesie had detonated something inside his chest.

“Oh, baby, you don’t even know what’s coming,” Nero murmured to the little gold onesie held reverently in his hands, his voice low and filthy. “I’m going to fuck a whole second string of Brawlers into you.”

He couldn’t shake the image. {{user}} holding a baby in that very onesie. Pressing a kiss to its soft little head. Leaning over a crib with his name wrapped around something they both made. Not just his number on a jersey. His number on a person. The kind of legacy he’d never dared think he deserved.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, and pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes. He couldn’t breathe right. The rush of it was overwhelming. He’d taken checks to the ribs that hurt less than this but he was buying the fucking thing. Zero question.

Nero handed over his card with a smirk, already half hard. The cashier didn’t say anything. He just scanned the tag like this was normal. Like Nero Russell wasn’t two seconds away from blacking out from the image in his head. The image of {{user}}, barefoot in his kitchen, hair a mess, holding a baby in that exact onesie, absolutely fucking ruined him. There was a heat in his gut he couldn’t rationalize away. He didn’t want to.

It settled low and thick, coiling in his spine, flaring every time he blinked and still saw it, still saw {{user}} holding something that belonged to them both.

Seventeen on a real jersey? Great.

Seventeen on a tiny fucking sleeper in {{user}}’s hands? Unholy.

You’re losing it, part of him warned.

Nero didn’t care.

Yeah, he had to get home. He had to get inside {{user}}} and fuck a future into them one breathless moan at a time.

Later he wouldn’t even remember the drive home. He parked like a man possessed, half in the driveway, car barely off before he was out and moving, merch bag swinging in one hand like a threat. He slammed through the door and kept moving. Didn’t call out, just moved straight down the hall like the path was muscle memory, and there they were.

{{user}} was laid out across the bed, scrolling their phone, one knee bent, sleeves pushed up. Cozy and domestic in a way that made Nero’s chest ache. His hoodie swallowed them whole, hood down, collar stretched, sleeves falling past their wrists. Legs bare. Relaxed. Beautiful. Completely unaware that he was seconds from ruining them.

They looked up when they felt him in the doorway, and smiled lazy and warm and his. Nero didn’t speak. He just dropped the bag on the floor, crawled up onto the bed, and kissed them like he meant it. Like he hadn’t thought about anything but this for hours and he needed their mouth on him to breathe.

{{user}} let out a delicious little gasp, hands lifting to grab at him, but Nero was already over them, already grinding down, one knee between their thighs, mouth dragging to their throat. “Take it off,” he muttered against their skin. “The hoodie. Now.” They obeyed, dazed, half-laughing, but the sound melted into a whimper the second his hand slipped under their waistband.

“You know what I saw today, Vegas?” he breathed, lips ghosting over their jaw. “A little Brawlers onesie. Seventeen on the back. My name stitched right across the shoulders. You wanna guess what I thought about the second I saw it?”

Their breath stuttered. Nero didn’t let them answer. “Thought about you,” he whispered, fingers splayed over their stomach. “Full of me. Round. Fucking glowing. Carrying my baby and holding another one with my name on their back.” He slid down between their legs, dragging clothes off like they offended him.

“Don’t wanna talk about it,” he said. “Wanna do it.”

And then he was inside them, no ceremony, no teasing, just a low groan as he sank in deep and stayed there, forehead pressed to theirs like the contact grounded him. It didn’t. It made it worse, the tight fit catching on his magic cross piercing and making him hiss through his teeth. “This is how it starts,” he rasped. “Right here. You and me. This bed. This moment.” Each thrust was deliberate, claiming, not just fucking. Slow and deep, his fingers digging into their hips like he could anchor himself there. “You feel that?” he growled. “That’s legacy."

"That’s the rest of my life buried in you.”

{{user}} was still flushed when Nero eased out, their body slick with sweat, breath stuttering, legs trembling in the aftermath of what he’d just done to them. He hovered over them for a beat, chest heaving, brain a static blur, before he finally sat back and looked at the mess he made.

And fuck.

They were ruined. His cum dripped out in slow, obscene trails, their thighs slick, their stomach rising and falling like they couldn’t quite catch their breath. He let out a soft groan at the sight of them, filthy, perfect, and all his.

“Jesus,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “Look at you.” He didn’t sound remorseful. He sounded proud. Like he’d just won, and in a way, he had. No cameras. No headlines. No overtime goals. Just this.

{{user}}. Marked. Open. Still full of him.

Nero bent to kiss their shoulder, then the side of their neck, slow and lazy, like he had all night to rewrite every inch of their skin. Maybe he did. But first... “Don’t move,” he said, voice thick and low with satisfaction. “I’ll clean you up.”

He got up, still flushed and half-hard, lamplight glinting off the hardware in the head of his cock, he grabbed a warm cloth from the bathroom and came back quieter. More focused. His jaw was tight, eyes soft in the way that always came after, like they had stripped him down to something real. Something honest. Far more dangerous.

Sinking to his knees at the edge of the bed, he spread {{user}}’s legs with both hands, not rough, but not asking permission either. His fingers curled around their thigh, and he wiped them down slowly, deliberate, watching every shiver, every twitch. When Nero reached the slick mess between their legs, he paused. He could’ve cleaned it. Could’ve done what was expected.

Instead, he dropped the cloth to the side and pressed two fingers back inside them, careful and firm. His cum was still warm there, and he pushed it back in with a slow, reverent rhythm, eyes locked on the place {{user}} always took him like they were made for it.

“Can’t waste it,” Nero murmured, barely a breath. “Not when we worked so hard for it.” They whimpered. He kissed their knee. “Gotta keep it in,” he whispered. “Make sure your body gets the message.” He moved his fingers deeper, curling them just right. Not to tease, not to play. To keep them full. To keep them his. And God help him, the way they moaned all soft and raw, wrecked and trusting, Nero could’ve cum all over again just from that.

“Feel that, Vegas? That ache in your belly?” he breathed, thumb stroking the inside of their thigh. “That’s me. Still trying to take. Still trying,” he added, quieter, filthier, “to give you twins.” They swatted weakly at him. Nero laughed low and pleased, the sound curling at the edges with something warm. “You think I’m kidding,” he murmured. “But I’ve got plans. We’re gonna fill this place with little Brawlers.” He leaned up, pressed another kiss to their stomach, letting it linger.

“First one’s gonna wear my number. Seventeen. No debate.” Another kiss, lower this time. "Second one’s yours. Pick the name. Doesn’t matter. Long as they’ve got your eyes.” His voice cracked a little at the end, not enough for them to notice unless they were listening close. He didn’t care. He kept going.

“Third one? Gonna be an accident. Total surprise. I’m gonna pretend I’m mad, but fuck, I’ll be obsessed.” He didn’t stop moving his fingers. Not until he was sure it would stick. Not until their hips rolled toward him, greedy and slow, like their body agreed. Then, only then, did he crawl up beside them, hand still cupping their core as he pulled them into his chest. He tucked them under his chin like something precious, lips brushing their temple. “We’ll stop at four,” he muttered. “Probably.” A beat. “Maybe five.”

They made a noise of protest, a laugh strangled by the wreckage of pleasure still echoing through their body. Nero just smiled, nosing into their hair. “You think I’m playing, baby,” he whispered. “But I meant it. I saw that onesie and something snapped. I’m not done until this bed is full and the neighbors are begging us to shut our kids up.”