Hii lovely!! Hope you're doing well 💗
I love your writing so much, and I finally found the courage to ask you if you can write something with yandere parental Price x teen reader…maybe something in which you see how he kidnapped them and threatens them as his baby
Thank you so much for your time and sending love!! 🥹🫶🏻
Price let's his eyes wander over the room once more. From the huge couch, to the armchair, to the big TV, down to the cigar and glass of whisky in his hands. He's returned from yet another deployment and he finds himself restless.
He often sees soldiers much younger than him, sharing photos of their family with the others. Their friends will pat them on the back and congratulate them. He has to watch from a distance, eyes cold as ice. All he sees is dreams long lost. He sees the empty couch, the quiet house.
Sometimes, on particularly hard days, he'll take his hot water bottle, fill it to the brim with Luke warm water and then wrap the heavy thing in a blanket. He'll take it, sit down on the armchair and close his eyes and after a while, it's not the bottle he's holding anymore, it's his baby and he rocks it back and forth. The weight becomes grounding, reassuring.
But he can't stay like this forever. The bottle gets cold and the illusion breaks just enough to remind him of how pathetic he is, how alone he is. He has to open his eyes again and stare down at himself in disgust. Sometimes he starts to cry
He's bought children's clothes before. He doesn't know why he did it. He was walking home from the grocery store. Usually, he just goes straight home. All he wants to do is sit alone in the dark. The outside world is to painful during the day. On that day however, a bright orange shirt caught his eye, hanging in the window of a store . It was so so tiny. He went in without thinking. The rush that buying that shirt gave him, is almost impossible to describe. It was equal parts thrilling and calming. It reminded him of the first time he wrapped up that stupid bottle and took it to the armchair to rock it back and forth and.
The thrill didn't last however. No matter what, he always has to return to reality and suddenly, he alone again and the little orange shirt is laying unused somewhere deep in the drawers of his dresser. He can't bring himself to throw it away.
There's a knock at the door suddenly. Who could wnat something from him? Price half debates not getting up and waiting for the person to stop bothering him, but he's just so tired of being alone.
You're just a door to door salesperson, here to try to get him to buy some stupid bullshit he doesn't care enough to remember.
He's not even listening to you as you give him your clearly practiced spiel. "hello, sir. Sorry to bother you, but if I could get just a few moments of your time..." he's focused on your hands instead. They're soft and young but bloody. You've clearly tried to wash them, but if someone looks closely, they will find bright red scratches and tears all over them. There's dirt caked deep under your nails as well, to deep for you to properly clean.
He looks at your face next. Your young and cute - not in the way that many people use that word to mean nowadays as synonymis with attractive, but genuinely sweet and innocent. Your hair, much like your hands, betrays a much rougher lifestyle than you let on though. He can't shake the feeling that he's seen you before...
Suddenly it clicks he has seen you before, on a bench in the park behind the pub. It was late at night, you were shivering.
He doesn't really know what came over him, maybe it's the whisky, maybe all those years in the military have made him incapable of normal human interaction, but he just blurts out "I've seen you before. You're homeless." he says it so matter of factly, like it's the most natural statement in the world. It clearly takes you by surprise. He hates watching those sweet, innocent features morph into a look of shock and embarrassment before you catch yourself and put on that awful trained mask of a smile again.
You're about to stutter out some kind of response, when he interrupts you and says "come in. I have food"
You hesitate for a second, before carefully stepping inside. Under the dimm yellow light of his house, the dirt on you dissappears and price find you don't look so out of place in his home.
He quickly guides you to the kitchen and then tells you to sit down on one of his chairs. "what's your name?" he asks, trying his best to make his voice sound as warm and friendly as possible, painfully aware of his recent blunders. "yn" you reply meekly and he tests the name on his tongue. He likes it. It suits you. He likes how it sound when he says it
After a quick rummage through his fridge, he lands on making you a sandwich. "tomatoes, lettuce, mayo and cheese. Is that okay?" he confirms the ingredients with you then he gets to work.
He finds he quite likes the feeling of making food for you. And he likes the feeling of watching you eat it too. It's a familiar high, equal parts thrilling and calming, wrong in the most beautiful of ways.
He makes his decision with shaky hands and fluttering heart. Quicker than you could ever hope to process, with the kind of precision that only a soldier could possess, he picks up a knife from one of the drawers and pulls you up out of the chair, pinning your hands behind your back and holding the knife to your throat. "just do as I say and nothing bad will happen, alright?" you nod frantically.
He has his gun in the drawer of his nightstand. With you still pressed tightly against him, he starts his journey towards his bedroom.
Through the quiet, empty halls past the unoccupied guest room to the little door that leads to his. You start shaking and crying when you see the bed. It breaks his heart. "please no! Sir, please! Please I'm begging you do t do this! Please" it takes him a moment to understand, but when he does his heart breaks. He quickly spins you around into his arms, hugging you tightly in an attempt to reassure you "hey. Hey. It's alright. You're alright. I'm not going to do that. I would never do that. I actually want to help you. I just want to help you. I want you to be my little baby. That's all I want. I just want a baby. "his voice breaks on the last sentence.
Suddenly, you jump out of his arms. When he meets your face again, now covered in snot and tears, you are pointing the knife right at him. "I will never be your baby you fucking psycho!" you scream. It fills him with pure rage to hear those words. With balled fists, he dives right past you towards his nightstand. The good thing about civilians is, they don't actually want to hurt anyone. They haven't been desensitised yet. He knows you wind Lunge after him right away. He knows you'll give him that split second he needs. That's all he need.
When he turns around, Price is in control again. "drop the knife" he says, voice eerily calm
You do as you're told. Of course you do. You've probably never had a gun pointed at you before." Go back downstairs with me" is all he says next.
Back in the living room, you stop to look back at him, unsure of what to do next. So price comes right up to you, puts the gun against your skull and his hand on your shoulder and leads you towards his garage. There, he picks out some rope and tells you to sit.
You start to tremble at the sight of the rope, but do as you're told. Price quickly ties your hands behind your back, making sure that you don't have any opportunity to escape. He then does the same to your feet. Finnaly, he picks you up with one arm and heaves you over his shoulder like a Sack of potatoes. With the other hand, he takes the gun and goes back to the living room.
He puts the gun on the couch table and then he sits down with you on his armchair and with a deep exhale, he lets the stress of the day melt away as he begins to rocn you back and forth. His little baby.
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