Based on past experiences. I've always been into older men apparently.
â pairing: John Price Ă fem!Reader
â cw: 18+; dad's best friend/"uncle"; fauxcest (?); age gap; fem!masturbation; first orgasm; exhibitionism kink
You don't know when it started.
No, that's a lie.
You know exactly when it started.
The summer you came home from uni and he was in the garden with your dad, sleeves rolled to the elbow, corded forearms tan from the sun.
He'd looked up from his beer and said "There she is," in that low, unhurried rumble, and something behind your ribs had justâshifted. Cracked open and clicked into place like a round chambering.
You'd been eighteen then. Old enough to know better. Young enough not to care.
Now you're lying in your childhood bedroom with the door locked and the window cracked, and the sound of their laughter carries up from the patio belowâyour dad's easy and bright, and then his, that deep, warm thing that you feel more than hear.
And you press your thighs together under the duvet and stare at the ceiling and think about absolutely nothing.
It doesn't work. Never does.
Because John Price is downstairs in your father's house, and he's probably in that soft grey henley he wears when he's off duty, the one that pulls across his buff chest and does nothing to hide the breadth of him. He's probably leaning back in the garden chair with his knees spread wide and a cigar between his fingers, and you can picture it so clearly it makes your stomach swoop and drop.
That slow way he brings it to his mouth, the way his lips close around it, the way his steely blue eyes would look if he glanced up and caught you watching from the window.
Would he hold your gaze?
Your hand moves before you give it permission. Just resting. Palm flat against your lower belly, fingers splayed over the waistband of your shorts. You're not doing anything. You're justâso warm.
Their voices drift up again. You hear your dad say something about the last rugby match he watched on the telly, and then Price laughs, and the sound rolls through you like a slow wave of heat, settling low and heavy between your hips.
You slip your hand beneath the elastic.
You're already wet. Embarrassingly, pathetically wet, and you haven't even done anything yetâjust laid here listening to his voice and thinking about his hands.
God, his hands. Broad and rough and so fucking capable, the kind of hands that probably know exactly how much pressure to apply and where.
You think about the way he gripped and curled around the neck of his beer bottle earlier, casual and sure, and your fingers press on your clit and your breath catches sharp in your throat.
You've tried this before. Plenty of times. In the shower, in bed, with your ex-boyfriend's clumsy fumbling that never quite got there. It always builds to a point and then justâstalls. Plateaus. Leaves you frustrated and aching and too much in your own head.
But right now you're not in your head. You're in his.
You're imagining what he'd do if he came upstairs. If he opened the door without knockingâbecause he would, wouldn't he, he's that type, all quiet authorityâand found you like this. Flushed and panting with your hand down your shorts in the room you grew up in, and his name caught between your teeth.
Would he stop? Would he turn away, do the decent thing, mutter an apology and shut the door?
Probably. You shake your head. No. Not in this daydream he wouldn't.
He'd lean against the doorframe. He'd cross his arms over that broad chest and watch you with those steady blue eyes, and his voice would be so calm, so impossibly composed, like he's giving a briefing and not watching you fall apart.
Don't stop on my account, love.
Your hips jerk. You press harder, circling in tight little motions that send electricity sparking up your spine, and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from making a sound because the window is open and they're right thereâand somehow that makes it worse.
Better. The risk of it, the obscenity of it, touching yourself to the sound of his voice while he sits ten feet below you, oblivious.
Or maybe not oblivious. Maybe he knows exactly what he does to you. Maybe Uncle John has known for yearsâseen the way your gaze lingers a beat too long, the way you flush when he calls you sweetheart in that offhand way, like the word belongs to you. Maybe he's thought about it, too. Late at night, alone, his hand wrapped around his cock in the dark while he thinks about his best mate's daughter and hates himself for it.
That's it. Good girl. Let me see you.
The wave crests without warning.
It's nothing like the plateau. It's nothing like the stalling, the frustration, the almost-but-not-quite.
It's a full-body thingâa clench and release that starts where your fingers are and radiates outward in a hot, pulsing rush, and you arch off the mattress with your teeth sunk into your bottom lip and his name trapped silently in your throat.
Your thighs shake. Your toes curl. The sound that escapes you is small and strangled and desperate, and for a few suspended seconds the entire world narrows to the rhythmic throb of it, rolling through you in waves that leave you breathless and loose-limbed and blinking at the ceiling like you've just discovered a new law of physics.
There you go.
You lie there after, chest heaving and sweaty, hand still pressed warm between your legs. Your pulse is loud in your ears. The breeze from the window cools the thin sheen of sweat on your collarbones, and from below, their voices haven't changedâstill easy, still laughing, still utterly unaware.
Your phone buzzes on the nightstand. You reach for it with trembling fingers.
J. Price (17:36): Your dad's firing up the grill. Coming down, sweetheart?
You stare at the message. Read it twice. Three times, blinking slowly with your cheeks on fire.
Then you type back: Be right there âșïž
You're going to go downstairs. You're going to sit across from him at the table and eat whatever your dad's burning on the barbecue, and you're going to smile and make small talk and pretend your legs aren't still shaking and your knickers aren't soaked through because of him.
And when he looks at youâreally looks, the way he sometimes does, lingering and half-lidded and maybe not as innocent as he lets onâyou're going to hold his gaze.
And you're not going to look away.
Because John Price just gave you your first orgasm.
