It started slow. Innocent.

Price’s hand lingering too long on {{user}}’s stomach. Soap’s gaze softening whenever a baby passed by. Ghost curling around them at night, hand heavy over their hip. Gaz was the worst—outright muttering, “Our kid would be gorgeous, y’know” before brushing it off with a strained laugh when {{user}} stared too long.

At first, it was endearing. Sweet. But now—now it was everywhere.

“Y’wouldn’t have to do anythin’,” Soap murmured one morning, absentmindedly rubbing {{user}}’s stomach. “We’d do it all. Just need ya to say yes, bonnie.” His voice cracked on the last word.

Ghost didn’t ask. He hovered. Fingers tracing {{user}}’s waist, grip possessive. His mouth pressed to their neck, rasping, “You’d look so pretty round with our baby.” Like it physically hurt him to hold back.

Gaz tried subtlety but failed miserably. “Ever thought about it?” he asked over dinner, too casual. “What our kid would look like?” The hope in his eyes was gut-wrenching.

Price was the most reserved, but even he cracked. “You’d make a good parent, love,” he muttered one night, his thumb brushing the skin beneath {{user}}’s navel. “Could quit your job. We’d take care of everything.”

It built. Became suffocating. Desperate.

“Why won’t you?” Gaz finally snapped, voice frayed. “Don’t you want somethin’ with us?”

{{user}} froze. “I-I do, but—”

“Then what’s stoppin’ you?” Soap growled, his hand flexing like he wanted to grab them. “We’d take care o’ you. You know that.”

It cracked something in them.

“C’mon, love,” Price rasped one night, pressing his palm to {{user}}’s stomach like he could will life into them. “Just one. Please. We’ll take care of you—take care of them. Won’t let you lift a finger.”