Staying Still masterlist John Price/female reader cw: brief sexual content
“Last chance.” He murmurs in your ear, beard brushing your skin. “You sure you don’t want to tap out princess?” You swallow.
“I’m not a quitter.” Your voice trembles, even against your best efforts to keep it steady.
This was supposed to be a joke. A test. A game of chicken you won.
It wasn’t supposed to be… this.
John looks you, blue eyes still bright in the low neon lights of the chapel. You’ve studied his face a thousand times, but you’ve never seen him look like this. A reverence soaked with intensity, limerence.
It must be the alcohol. The night turned morning. This train rapidly careening off the tracks.
The two of you caught up in a dare, caught up in each other, if only for this fleeting moment.
He searches your eyes one last time, and then nods at the Elvis impersonator who’s standing quietly at your side.
“We’re ready.”
Your hand feels heavier.
Which is strange, because why would that be?
There’s sunlight streaming in through the window across the bed, across your face, and you fling your arm over your eyes, trying to block it out, ward off the hangover migraine you can already feel coming.
Jesus Christ, what the hell happened last ni-
“Oh my god.” You shoot straight up in bed, sheets pooling at your waist. The sudden movement has the room spinning, and your hand, your heavy hand, folds down onto the mattress for support, entire body aching. Bones rigid, muscles sore, everything stiff… and sticky between your legs. “Oh my god.” You’re alone in bed, but not the room. The shower is on in the bathroom, steam rolling out from beneath the door, and for a long second, you wonder if you hallucinated the whole thing. If you dreamed it.
No.
The proof, undeniable, blatant, shiny… is sitting on your finger.
“Holy fuck.”
An empty, tipped over champagne bottle catches your eye. Next to it? Your underwear. You’re stark naked beneath the sheets, and when you run your fingers over your face, you feel the telltale hardened sprawl of lashes. You didn’t even wash your makeup off.
But all of that pales in comparison to what happened last night. What you think happened last night.
The ring sparkles at you, mocks you. You try not to dwell on the face that it’s huge, something purchased at one of the high end jewelry stores in one of the hotels. It’s flashy. Multiple carats. Perfect clarity. It’s what every girl wants.
Except you.
Take one look at this ring and it says exactly what you would except. It belongs to a spoiled brat. A girl gone wild, a material girl, a fake, pretty, plastic barbie doll.
The ring brandishes the ugliest truth at you, one you can’t escape.
This is how he sees you.
The shower stops. There’s the sound of a drawer, movement, and you’re split down the middle, debating grabbing all your clothes and making a run for it, or hiding under the bed.
You don’t have time to consider either. As soon as you start to roll towards where your bra lays on the floor, the door creaks… and then he’s there. In jeans, without a shirt on, watching you with crossed arms. Your throat dries, lips parting for words that won’t come out. There isn’t a cohesive thought in your head.
Run. Hide. Sprint out the door and onto a plane.
This… this is wrong.
This is your crush gone rancid, desire turned foul. Tarnished by a farce, something fake and vapid, something not meant to last.
A wedding in Vegas.
How cliche.
Your wildest, hopeful dreams would have been to be with John for one day, just for a night and nothing more.
Now you’ve turned it into a mess. A reflection of yourself.
His gaze drops to the ring, and your stomach flips hard.
He doesn’t smile, or frown, or sigh. He just holds steady focus, his laser precision studying her hand like it’s a puzzle.
“Uh, hi.” Your voice cracks, and she finally exhales.
“Oh Ava. What am I going to do with you.”
“Well…” you gesture to the room, its trashed state, the tipped over bottle. “We can… pretend this never happened?” His eyes narrow.
“We can’t.” You’re not sure you’ve ever heard him so serious.
“Okay,” you say, fast. “Okay that’s fine. We can undo it, right? We… this… this happened but it was just a drunken mistake. A crazy, drunken Vegas mistake.” You’re not sure who you’re talking to now, him or you. You add a half hearted laugh, perfectly crafted, but it doesn’t hit.
John’s jaw tightens. It’s subtle, but you see it, just like you always see him. Everywhere. In a room, down the hallway, you feel him around every corner, in every stairwell. Everywhere.
His eyes don’t leave you, and the look in them isn’t desire, or hunger, or something close to carnal. Nothing like they were last night. That’s one thing you can remember. His eyes. Heavy, heated, possessive. Looking up at you from between your legs as his tongue rolled over your clit and you came. Looking at you like he wanted you. Like this wasn’t just a dare, a fluke, a mistake.
But he’s not looking at you like that now. No. Right now, his eyes are clinical. Assessing, diagnosing.
“Ava.” Your shoulders rise to your ears instinctively.
“I didn’t mean…” you start with a whisper, but stop. This is your fault, you know. You took it too far, couldn’t control yourself, couldn’t not take the bait, push it to the limit. You’ve poisoned whatever it was between the two of you. You’ve ruined it. “I… it’s fine. We can get an annulment right now. Today. Don’t they do those? For situations like this? I mean, it’s Vegas. I’m sure there’s a need for it. We can do it before we get on the plane, it will be easy. I’ll look-”
“Stop.” You bite down on the inside of your cheek, instantly silenced. A little girl chastised by her daddy. “You’re spiraling.”
“I am not spiraling.” You snap. His gaze flicks to the bottle, your underwear, the mascara smudged under your eyes, to the ring. Then back to your face, where his expression softens a fraction.
“Okay.” He says in that calm, steady tone, the one that makes you feel insane. The one that could be so soft, so safe if you fell into it. “We’re not going to make any decisions right now.”
“I want-”
“I want you to drink some water and have something to eat.” There’s a knock at the door down the hall. “Room service. Get dressed.”
You scramble as soon as his back is turned, fumbling around for your clothes. This isn’t your room, yours is down the hall, and the only thing you have in here is your skimpy cocktail dress and too high heels.
A cart is wheeled in and a moment later, John reappears, plate and bottle of water in hand. You can’t look at him as he deposits it on the side table. Him, freshly showered, clean, put back together and you, a mess, dirty in your skin tight dress.
Fingers slowly stroke the apple of your cheek. Your heart practically stops in your chest.
“Eat.” He says sternly. “I’ve got to run down to the lobby quick. Stay put, eat your breakfast and drink that bottle of water.” He slips his shoes on, and then looks at her expectantly. “Ava.”
“What?”
“Do not leave this room. Finish your food and wait for me here. Do you understand?” Yes daddy, you want to mock, push back against this heavy hand like you always do. Instead, you force a smile, teeth gnashed together, and lie.
“Yes.”
Facing the music is harder than you anticipated.
You’re not sure what you expected, after fleeing. After sitting in your apartment for two days, hiding. Trying to stave off the consequences.
There were dozens of them. Consequences.
Missed calls. From John, from Daisy, from Liv. Endless text messages, some worried, some sternly worded.
I asked you to stay put.
Answer the phone.
Ava.
And now, as you stare down the barrel of the hospital’s front doors, you feel the full weight of those consequences.
Your stomach twists. Dread and anxiety settle there, spinning in circles, tightening around your neck like a noose.
“Y’alright?” A rough British accent shakes you from your spiral, and you turn to find Doctor Riley standing behind you with an eyebrow raised. Shit.
“Fine, thanks.” You sound like yourself, steady and self-assured, there’s nothing in your voice that betrays the turmoil brewing inside you.
“He’s not here.” You freeze, fingers tightening instinctively on the strap of your bag. “Took today off.”
“Oh.” You shrug. Unbothered, or at least pretending to be. “That’s nice.”
“Daisy called you ten times over the weekend.” He glances at your left hand, gaze turning cool. “She’s upset you were ignoring her.” Your already turbulent stomach twists with guilt.
“I know.” His eyes narrow.
“Fix it.” Doctor Riley, Simon, doesn't mess around when it comes to his wife. She and Riley are the sun, and he’s every planet in the solar system, endlessly rotating around them.
You bite your tongue, swallow the smart response that threatens to slip free.
“I will.” You give him a fake, saccharine smile. “Thanks.” His eyes turn severe, and then he shakes his head.
“Sugar cubes.”
“What?” He smiles, already in motion, headed toward the doors.
“Nothing.”
“Look at me.”
You can’t. You want to, some hidden, terrified part of you desperately wants to, but you’re too afraid.
It’s easier to look at the ceiling. At the wall. At the strip, glowing outside the hotel room window.
“Ava.” He murmurs into your jaw, lips warm on your skin. You’re on fire. Every nerve, every synapses, every single cell inside you is exploding, and every time he rolls his hips, you’re torn between ecstasy and agony. “Ava.” He says again, and you shake your head.
“I can’t.”
“Yes you can.” His body presses into yours, steadily, patiently, and you moan. He’s breaking you into pieces with each thrust, tearing your heart in two.
When you ignore him, he drives forward, hard. Hard enough your hands fly to his shoulders, nails digging into his skin.
“John-”
“Give me your eyes, princess.” He says it gently, but there’s a command in his voice, one you can’t fight it, and when you finally look up, he’s there. Waiting. Watching.
Everything is stripped away. He’s not looking at you like a disappointed attending, he’s not glaring at you sternly. He’s not lecturing you, or teasing you, or showering you in that rare, soft praise you occasionally get.
He’s looking at you with something raw in his eyes, something real.
He’s looking at you like this matters.
You have the urge to flee. Crawl out of your skin. Get away from this man who has been living in a secret compartment of your soul for years now, run away from the consequences of making a mockery of your own feelings. Your heart.
Your eyes fill with tears.
His hand comes up to cradle your face, thumb catching the first one that rolls towards the pillow from your temple.
“It’s okay, sweetheart. I’ve got you.” He kisses you. Whiskey and cigar roll over your lips and you drink it in, pull him closer. You let yourself believe it for a second, let yourself imagine this not being a dare, a drunken mistake.
When you can’t take the eye contact anymore you wrench your gaze away and bury your face in his neck, tasting the salt and smoke of his skin. That’s where you stay, as he takes you apart and puts you back together over and over again, and the sun starts to rise over Sin City’s skyline.
Daisy is very calm.
It’s annoying, considering she used to be wild, unhinged even, like you. Two peas in a pod. Partners in crime.
If you had a bad idea, you could trust Daisy to double down on it, all while the two of you made Olivia pull her hair out at the roots.
But that was before.
Now, she sits at the lunch table, hands folded under her chin, looking wise beyond her years. Her watchful eyes fix on your face, the perfect picture of contemplation and consideration, a barely-there smirk the only evidence of her amusement.
“The internet says it’s a whole process. I thought I could just file some paperwork.”
“You’re surprised undoing a marriage isn’t so easy?” Daisy raises a brow. You scowl at her.
“It’s not a marriage,” you protest immediately. The word sinks like a stone in your stomach. “It was a wedding, that’s all.” You shove aside the memory that snakes its way up your spine at the word wedding, swallow back the heat pooling on the tip of your tongue as you remember the feeling of John’s body on yours, his hand on yours, fingers intertwined as he buried himself so deep you could feel him in your heart. “It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Yes,” Daisy smiles sweetly, “mine didn’t either.”
“It’s not the same.” The chair next to you creaks as Olivia slumps into it, a hand covering her face. She looks beat, and you're eager to change the subject. “You look exhausted.”
“I have the worst assignment today." She reaches for a fry on your plate. “And I swear I’m still hungover.”
“It’s Tuesday,” Daisy says, and Olivia nods somberly.
“I know. That’s why it’s such an issue. When did we get so old? I mean, you’re both married. I’m practically a spinster.” You groan.
“I’m not married. I just… made a legally binding mistake.”
“Uh, I don’t know if you remember but you are married. Trust me, I know. I was there.”
“And I wasn’t.” Daisy takes a swig from her water bottle and frowns. “I can’t believe you got married and I wasn’t there.” You wonder what would have happened if Daisy was there. If she and Simon hadn’t gone to bed. Would she have let you do it? Would she have stopped you?
“Okay, can we please stop talking about this?”
“Why? It’s the most exciting thing that’s happened since Simon and Daisy got married.” Olivia leans in conspiratorially. “Did you consummate said marriage?” Your cheeks burn. Daisy’s mouth forms a O.
“Oh my god.”
“Stop.” You hiss.
“Oh my god, Ava!” Olivia cackles, and the heads around you at other tables turn. You glare at them, at her.
“Liv. Shut up.”
“Okay, okay. But I need to know… how was it? He?” You shake your head.
“It was good and I don’t want to talk about it right now.” Good is an understatement. Good is something you say when a server asks you how your meal is, or when your coworker asks you how your weekend was.
It wasn’t good.
It was everything.
“Okay but you’re not getting out of this.” Olivia decides, looking at her watch as it buzzes. She sighs. “I’ve gotta get back.”
“Me too.” You stand with her, leaving your fries on the table for Daisy. “Talk later?” She smiles.
“Definitely.”
“I think I want to get married,” you muse with a sigh, leaning into Olivia’s side. It’s close to three in the morning, though you’re barely tired. The alcohol buzzing through your veins has kept you going since eight the night before. The guests of honor, Simon and Daisy, tapped out of their own joint bachelor/bachelorette party hours ago. “I’d be a hot bride.” She giggles, and John leans forward, elbows on knees.
“You want to get married, princess?” There’s something in his expression that steals your breath. His lips are no longer tipped upward in an amused smile, and his eyes are dry of mirth. Instead, you see hunger, heated possessiveness. You see…
Challenge.
You shrug.
“Sure. Why not? It seems fun.” You lift your martini to your lips. It’s your fourth of the night, you think. Or fifth. Or who knows, you’ve stopped counting. John’s eyes sweep you. They linger on your calves, work their way up to your knees, your waist, the low cut of your dress. Finally, they find your own gaze, and stay there.
“You should get married, Ava.” Olivia slurs, lists to the side. Kyle puts his arm around her but she straightens, excited, glancing between you and John. “Oh my god, you two should get married! I could be your flower girl!” She keeps going, completely unaware. Johnny is shaking his head at her, the motion that started out as playful now turning more serious. “The two of you would make such cute babies too.”
“Olivia,” Kyle says softly, and she gives him a lighthearted scowl.
“What? It’s not like I’m being serious.” She hiccups, reaches for her drink, pouts when Johnny swipes it before she can get her fingers on it. “That’s not fair.”
“Think ye’ve had enough angel.”
“It’s okay. She’s not serious, right? She never is.” John says, looking at you, and it stings. Olivia’s face twists.
“She’s-”
“Want to bet?” You interrupt her, cutting off whatever she’s going to say, some well-meant defense of your character. “We could get married right now.” Kyle and Johnny exchange an uncomfortable look that you catch from the corner of your eye, but you’re too wrapped up in this to stop and think about it, and the vodka is making your head fuzzy. John cocks his head.
“We could…” he says slowly.
“Unless you’re scared.” He raises an eyebrow.
“Of getting married?”
“Of me.” It comes out small. So much smaller than you imagined it would, a whisper full of fear. His eyes soften, and he stands. Holds out his hand for you to take, and then pulls you up off the couch. You list to the side, off balance in your heels, but he steadies you, holds you in his arms. Your heart pounds in your ears.
“I’m not afraid of you princess.” He murmurs, and briefly strokes your cheek with the backs of his knuckles. “We can go find a chapel right now.” You swallow. The world quiets, the sounds of the casino, of Olivia, everything else falls away until it’s just the two of you, staring at one another.
Refusing to back down.
You smile. It’s forced, because this is spiraling out of control. It shouldn’t be him. This farce shouldn’t be happening with the one man you’ve always thought you might want something real with.
You shake it off. Shove it down-
And look him dead in the eye.
“Let’s go then.”
You don’t end up talking to Daisy, or Liv, or anyone later.
The day runs you ragged. Patients, providers, room seven’s sister, the elevator on your side of the floor out of service, all of it all at once leaves you with a headache blooming behind your eyes.
You drive home on autopilot.
You hardly remember getting your bag from the car, getting into your apartment, falling onto your couch. You turn the TV on if only to have background noise, and then stare at the ceiling.
Married.
You’re married.
It's still alien in your mind, on your tongue.
Married to a pipe dream of a man. Married to someone you always hope might see you differently, might know you.
You married him, and it’s not real.
He didn’t choose you.
He chose a dare. A challenge.
A wild, impulsive, ridiculous idea that will make a great story.
The reality of it all drains the life out of you.
Which is why you’re half asleep when someone starts repeatedly knocking at your door.
You stumble up from the couch, tripping over the laundry basket that’s overflowing with clean clothes, trying to tug your t-shirt into place.
The knocks start again.
“I’m coming!” You yell down the hall. “Jesus.”
You don’t look through the peephole. You should have, it may have given you time to prepare, to formulate a plan or just… pretend you’re not home.
Unfortunately, you did not look.
So you have nothing to say when you fling open the door to find John Price standing on your doormat, his arms crossed, head cocked.
“John,” you breathe. His eyes move over your face, your body, your bare left ring finger . His jaw tightens, and then his gaze lifts to yours.
“Ignoring your husband already, Mrs. Price?”
