#john civello

one of your feet, clad in silver stilettos, glides along the shape of his spine, rubbing against the stiff fabric of his blazer as you do so, to encourage him to keep going. the material is cheap and scratchy, but the only grievance you hold with it is that it conceals his skin from you. the time provided by your measly restroom excuse only grants you so long with Johnny; certainly not long enough for a proper fuck.

and, despite what others may think about the little street rat with his face buried in your sex, he was a generous lover. incredibly so, and the type you’d only read about in dirty books you used to steal from your mother’s nightstand when you were in school. the type that would rather see you climax than climax, themselves. you didn’t believe those types existed, until Johnny Boy threw you on this very table for the first time, pushed your legs open, and devoured you like you’d never been devoured before.

recalling the memory and how ferocious your orgasm had been that night oftentimes helped you chase any pathetic excuse for a high that Michael could provide you, if he did that much, not that he cared either way; Michael was selfish and a poor lay for a shmuck with so much cash.

Johnny was so different from him, in every way. he wanted you to scream, to quake. he wanted you to be so spent and exhausted that you’re in tears and begging him not to give you another because you simply couldn’t take anymore. and just when you teetered on this edge, would he indulge himself and decimate your body further to bring about his own climax.

sure, it was greedy, in the end. he borrows you from Michael the same way he borrows cash from him, shamelessly, and with no intention of repayment. to Johnny, you belonged to Michael, but only in theory. in reality? in reality, you were all his; he figured such a thing was obvious to anyone and everyone.

your back arches up off the table with a breathless grunt, one of your hands bracing yourself against it whilst the other is hidden beneath your skirt, buried in mahogany tresses that you grip from the root the moment you feel the girth of his middle finger slip inside of you. as if his tongue wasn’t already driving you mad by the way it cartwheels over your clit, and then glides betwixt your folds, tasting your raw honey as your nether lips weep with it. his head is consistently undulating, so even when the velvety muscle is prodding at your entrance or flicking at your labia, the bridge of his nose stimulates your swollen bud. it provides the perfect shape to rut against, as well, and you take advantage of the angle at which you lay to grind against his face and ease a bit of the pressure building in your lower half.

“Mm, yes, baby-“ you purr, guiding the oscillation of his skull by the vice you’ve got on his tendrils. “Just like that!”

the digit that fits snugly inside of you is nothing compared to how his manhood felt when he stretches you out, but you were grateful for the extremity. your walls flutter around his finger as he pushes it knuckle-deep. his tongue has made its way back to your abused nub, and you’re hyper sensitive to every sensation- the encouraging flicker of his tongue and the faint scrape of his teeth. pair this with the relentless curling and uncurling of his middle finger, and you’ve got a truly maddening experience. your stomach is in knots, your climax peeking right around the corner.

Johnny mumbles something, but it’s much too slurred and muddled as he refuses to surface from the haven between your hips to be heard properly, so you can only deduct that he was praising your taste. your eyelids feel as though they weigh a thousand pounds, but they part ever slightly, shifting to push up on your forearm. your head lolls to the side, unstable as if it’s nothing more than a fishbowl atop your shoulders.

the digit within you pushes his luck by inviting his neighbor, the ring finger, to join him. your sex accommodates the newcomer, and welcomes it with a vehement clench around the two together. with your breathing labored, and diamonds of sweat beginning to form on your temple, you pull his hair tighter, wishing that he could get even closer to your core, though such a thing was impossible. “Mm!” another sultry moan erupts from your lips, the muscles in your legs beginning to cramp up. “Fuck, that’s it! Oh, oh my god, I’m gonna cum!”

this was when Johnny appears to be wired; whenever you’re on the brink and chasing your climax, there’s a twinkle in his umber hues, every movement is much more calculated and powerful, and now is no exception. both fingers pump, knuckle deep, in tandem inside of you, each time jabbing at a weakened bundle of nerves that has your thighs quivering, and his lips encase your clitoris in a tight seal, sucking on the button until you’re whimpering for him, and tossed about the raging sea of your orgasm. to watch you come undone was always his favorite part, and perhaps that was your fault for putting on such a damn good show.

his name is a prayer on your lips, to be repeated over and over. sometimes loud, sometimes soft, breathless and needy, it remains there until you can take no more, and your body collapses against the table beneath the force of your orgasm.

“That was a big one, uh?” Johnny is beaming the moment he emerges from beneath your skirt, wiping the sheen of your arousal from the corners of his mouth. of course, he wastes none, as his fingers retract from your spasming cavern and beeline to his mouth, so he can show you how much he loves to taste you while he licks them clean. you shudder at the visage, your sex fluttering and clenching around empty air, though it yearns to be filled again. “Michael not making you cum regular?”

you roll your eyes once your breathing is under control, and grab his shoulder with both hands in order to pull yourself into a sitting position with a bitter chuckle. “Is that supposed to be a joke, Johnny Boy? I told you, the guy’s a one pump chump, and a greedy one, at that.” you inch to the edge of the table before pushing off from it.

the moment your heels hit the floor, you realize what a bad idea it was to stand up immediately after an orgasm that intense, as your knees threaten to buckle and your thighs wobble like warm jelly. “Jesus,” you mutter, half playfully. “I’m gonna look like a newborn calf walking back to our table. That’s your fault.”

“Hey, wait a minute. Wait a minute, c’mere.” he pleads, both arms reaching out to steady you, but instead, his hands wrap around your biceps and he guides you to the doorframe, pressing your back to it. “How many times I gotta tell you that you should get rid of him, huh? Why don’t you just cut him loose, come home with me instead, yeah?”

you giggle, as if he’s joking, but you know that he’s all too serious. nibbling on the inside of your cheek, you lean back against the door you’re pinned to, looking over his visage. he’s disheveled, to say the least. his hair is unruly from your constant abuse, and his lips are swollen. not to mention, his eyes are hazy, lids just as heavy as yours. “I can’t do that, you know I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Why not?” you repeat incredulously with a soft scoff. “Because he’d kill the both of us, that’s why not. Johnny… I like you, all right? And god knows I love our time together, but Mike, he’s-“

“An asshole.”

you roll your eyes, but nod. “Dangerous. At least you’re in less danger if they don’t know about us.”

Johnny looks pensive for a moment, as if soaking in every word, before he nods, clearly disappointed and pouting like a child. “All right, all right fine. Just do me a favor. Don’t fuck him tonight, okay?”

you blink, before your brow quirks, and you reach for the doorknob behind you. “Why?” you tease with a playful grin on your lips. “Will it make you jealous?”

Johnny doesn’t hesitate in the least bit, nodding. “Jealous? Yeah, it’ll make me fucking jealous. Knowing that I can make this pretty pussy of yours all red and swollen-“ as he speaks, one hand slips between your thighs to find your over-stimulated and extra sensitive sex, rubbing two fingers against your clit and slotting them just beneath your folds until you gasp and grip at his jacket, your body writhing in response. “And that fuckin’ jerk-off gets to use her to get his rocks off.”

“Johnny-“ you whine, gripping his jacket so tightly your knuckles are turning whiter by the second. “Johnny, I’m sensitive…”

“And he, ya know, he just doesn’t treat your pussy right. Not like I do. Does he? Huh? Huh?” Johnny leans closer, pressing taunting, little pecks to your cheek and rubbing harder circles into your most sensitive area each time.

you’re practically yelping by the time you shake your head, knees bending as they threaten to crumble altogether, and you lean forward against him to keep your wavering balance. “No, Johnny! Not like you do, no one treats my pussy that good-“ you're breathless and overstimulated, each slip-slide of his fingers against your swollen flesh spiraling you further and further into desperation.

“I know,” he grins; his usual, cocky smirk, before pursing his lips. “Now gimme a kiss, angel.”

it takes absolutely no thought- your lips find his in a fervent kiss, not only in need of him to ease up, but genuinely excited to taste him again. you can taste yourself in his mouth, but it doesn’t take away from the raw, liquor and tobacco taste that was John Civello.

so you sat in a stool at the bar, stirring your cocktail with the straw that you had mostly been chewing on, and your eyes stray from him every so often, but they always find their way home. to watch him laughing, or to follow the movement of his palms if they dipped and grazed a woman’s shoulder or bicep. the jukebox is too loud to hear what they’re saying from where you sit, however, he wears a perma-grin, one that is all too telling of his intentions with these women. 

you’re too caught up in admiring him, gaze dancing over his form, that when your eyes travel the length of him to land upon his countenance again, you see he’s staring right at you. you’ve been caught red handed. while you could’ve played bashful, looked away, and perhaps you should have, you don’t. you’re sucked in by honeyed hues that, even from the distance and against the dim lighting of the bar, have the ability to lock you into a vehement stare. you welcome the eye contact, perfectly content to keep it all night. his expression has changed, what was once an arrogant smirk was now full of curiosity. collecting the lower portion of your tiers between your teeth, it doesn’t halt the spread of a flirtatious smile, but makes it all the more so.

it’s strange, but you swear in this moment, this man can read your mind; he knows just how badly you want to be where those women are, he can feel the attraction, the magnetism. he can hear the pounding of your heart from across the bar the moment he excuses himself from his company, and each step he takes is only making it beat faster. he saunters to you, in a way that a peacock does, fully fanned and on display for you. 

“Well, well,” his voice is, somehow, exactly how you imagine it- a purr like an engine, as he slides into place beside you, resting with one elbow against the bartop so that he may lean against it and face you. “What do we have here, hm? You lost, darlin’?”

it feels as though someone has taken a torch to your cheeks, setting them alight with a telltale blush; you just pray that he can’t see how flustered you are from the reddish lighting that you both bathe in. “Is it that obvious?” you counter, nibbling on the inside of your cheek. “Do I really stick out that much?”

thunderous laughter erupts from him, as if he found the question hilarious. “I’m tellin ya, sweetheart, you stick out like a sore thumb. I gotta ask, what would your daddy think if he found ya in a place like this, hm?” 

your brow quirks, as if challenging, and you take the tip of the straw between your lips, taking a lengthy sip as you ponder the question presented to you. “He’d probably be pissed,” you admit, though there’s a ghost of a smirk against your lips at the idea, and what comes out next. “What daddy doesn’t know wont hurt him, right?”

the man’s eyes seem to twinkle at your words, no doubt impressed. they trail over your features, taking their time to admire your countenance in its entirety, before careening downward. he is shameless in his staring, looking you up and down once, twice, even thrice before he speaks again. “Oh yeah? What’s your name, sweetheart?”

without so much as a moment of hesitation, you tell him, and he repeats it, allowing each syllable to rest on his tongue. after a moment of tasting, he decides to introduce himself. “Johnny Civello. How ‘bout I buy you a drink, huh pretty girl?” 

allowing a giggle to bubble up from your lips, you gesture to the still-full glass that you’re currently nursing, held tightly between your palms. “I’m not finished with this one, Johnny Civello.” you tease, the tip of your tongue darting out to  lick about the excess of alcohol that may still linger on your lower lip. as you do so, you catch his eyes following the movement of your tongue, staring hard at your lips.

“So what?” he counters, although his gaze has yet to leave your mouth. it’s almost intimidating, how he’s gazing at your lips, as if he’s starving, and it seems as though the roles are reversed. this time, you feel as though you can read his mind, and what you see has your blush deepening. “Let me buy you another one.”

you contemplate his offer, though it would be a lot easier to think clearly if his eyes were not glued to your lips. still, he’s tempting. once again, in a way that shouldn’t be. you should level with yourself, convince yourself that he’s no good for you, but that voice in the back of your head is urging you to reach out and touch the flames. “The way you’re staring at my lips makes me think you want to get me drunk, Johnny.” you murmur, both brows raised as your head cocks to the side. you take another sip, and this time you swear his eyes follow the straw all the way into your mouth. it’s unnerving and exciting all at once. 

his own smile widens, and yet he shakes his head. “I’ve got plenty of other ideas about those pretty lips that don’t involve the booze, sweetheart.” he admits, brazen and proud of it. a short nod, and a low and guttural hum has you glancing down at the bartop with a shy giggle. “Oh, yes ma’am, lots of ideas, indeed.”

“You must be trouble,” you reply, peeking up at him from under your brows, as if the angle of your face is somehow meant to deter him from spying the effect he’s had on you. it’s obvious, of course, the way you can’t stop smiling and the heated blush, but you feel a bit safer shrinking away from him at this moment. nudging the end of the straw with your fingertip, you stir your drink, faux-thoughtful. “Only trouble talks like that.”

Johnny doesn’t bother trying to convince you otherwise. in fact, his presumptuous nature is even more apparent as he seems to be flattered at the statement. “I am trouble.” he admits, hand outstretched. the pads of his fingers seek your jaw, trailing along it. they seem to leave mini wildfires in their wake as they caress your skin, and for a moment you lose yourself in the sensation. how nice it is. his forefinger curls beneath your chin and urges it upwards, encouraging you to look up at him again, which you do, and are met with that same, intense eye-lock as before. “But I get the feelin’ that trouble’s what you’re looking for.” your gaze pours into his own, and you know for sure that if you were to hold it much longer, you may be  stranded in the depths of his umber pair for the rest of eternity. what scares you, however, is how willing you are to allow yourself to do so. 

it was freezing when you stumble, half-witted, into the hospital. you were lost, and if you hadn’t stopped to ask for directions two different times, you never would’ve found the place. nothing seemed familiar, no one looked like Johnny, and that scared you. regardless of everyone around, you were alone if he wasn’t there with you.

“Ma’am, can I help you?”

your head whips around, frantic to catch a glimpse of him. just one. please. pushing yourself on to your tiptoes, you attempt to peer into the glass doors behind the nurse standing before you. there were so many people, crowding the hallways. an order is barked in your direction, and you side step a speeding gurney, only catching a glimpse of the man who lay atop it. bloody, battered, but not your Johnny. it only made you more anxious.

“Ma’am?”

“Where is he? Where’s Johnny Boy?” you’re stuttering, hyperventilating, and your heart is beating so hard it may as well have broken straight through your rib cage and punched a hole in your chest to escape.

pure confusion taints her countenance. it only takes a millisecond to realize, and you attempt to backtrack. “Um.. I mean, shit, sorry. John Civello. Is he, uh, I- is he here?” using both of your hands, you hug yourself, but it’s no substitute to how Johnny held you. there’s a lump in your throat that must be the size of a tennis ball, because it burns every time you try to speak. “I- I was told he was here, you’ve seen him, right?” admittedly, you are becoming more and more frustrated with that damned, puzzled look on her face. you begin to wonder if maybe the phone call was a fake, someone Michael hired to psyche you out.

was Johnny…?

no, there was no way. the thought was thrown out the window the moment you realized he couldn’t be dead. Johnny couldn’t be dead, because your heart was still beating, and that was proof enough. without his to beat in tandem with yours, you were certain yours wouldn’t have the strength to keep you alive.

“I- I don’t-“

“Listen to me!” your hands shoot out before you can keep them from doing so, and grasp her wrists, your voice shaking. “Listen, please! John Civello! He’s young, dark hair, dark eyes! He was shot, he would’ve been with two other people. He’s here, isn’t he? Please, someone told me he was here, you have to know.”

finally, something clicks. something falls into place. “Oh!” exclaiming, she takes a step back from you, and it's in that moment that you realize how tight you’d been gripping her wrists. it almost seemed like a threat, and you wonder if this woman was afraid of you. you quickly retract and clasp your hands together to keep them behaving, the wells of your eyes filling nearly to the brim when she nods. “He’s… here. He’s in room…” her eyes cast downward to the clipboard, although you do catch her cautious gaze flickering up to make sure you’re stable (and a safe distance away) before she finds the number. “206. But, miss, he’s not been stabilized-“

faintly, you hear the warning she gives, but you’re already pushing past countless lab coats and sprinting down the hall, eyes darting to count each number above every door. 203. 204. 205.

“Johnny!”

his name escapes your lips in a desperate call the second you see him in the bed, surrounded by doctors. several of them jolt, startled by your scream, but you hardly notice. all you can see is him, just him. he was there, he was alive. “You- you- fucking-“ you’re overwhelmed. relief that he was alive, but anger- no, white hot rage, that he had done something so idiotic as to gamble with his life. tears flood your ducts, and tumble, helplessly, over your cheeks. “Goddamn you, John Civello. Do you hear me?! Goddamn you!”

genuinely, as you approach the door, you’ve no idea whether you’re going to cling to him for dear life or deck him square in the jaw. “How could you do this?! Johnny!”

a pair of arms coil around you like snakes, and you reach for the doorway, to pull yourself inside against the strength of the foreign force. “Stop! I need to see him! Let go of me!”

your name is mumbled in your ear from a familiar voice, and you realize the one holding you in an organic cage is Charlie. “It’s me, it’s me I’m here.”

your fight, the anger you hold, they fade. you give in, and slump back against his chest with a pathetic sob. twisting to face him, weak fists bat at the expanse of his torso. “You- you promised…” it’s a croak, and a barely audible one at that, as you bury your face in his coat, staining his shirt with your saline testament. “You promised he’d be safe.”

Charlie is silent, deafeningly so, for a matter of seconds. what can he say, after all? his grip has shifted into a hug, palms pressed flush against your back and rub comforting circles.

crying into Charlie’s chest is a short-lived moment of reprieve from concern. he was here, but more importantly, so was Johnny, who was alive. you felt as though you may be able to compose yourself, but just as your heartbeat begins to settle, the atmosphere of the room changes.

“Mister Cappa, I’m sorry but we’ve already told you. We can’t keep him here, I’m sorry.”

“What?” your brows knit together and, sniffling, you pull away from Charlie and face the doctor. whether it’s the heat in your gaze or his revelation of his incredibly lousy way of delivering the news, he seems taken aback. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I- Miss, he has no money. No insurance. Legally, we-“

“Legally? You’re fucking with me, right? The man’s been shot and you’re spouting legalities?!” throwing your hand in the direction of the room, you take a threatening step towards the doctor. sniffling be damned, your cheeks are still wet and your lungs ache. “I don’t care how much it costs, I’ll pay whatever. You’d better save his life-“ you are acutely aware of the faint nudge from Charlie, but you don’t look away from the doctor’s eyes, glaring into them. “Save his life, doctor.”

he decides, and it’s the smartest decision to make, to simply nod and back away from you before he regroups with the others in the room, whispering. you can’t hear what they’re saying, but your eyes have fallen on your love, and you take slow steps towards the room. this time, Charlie doesn’t stop you.

seeing him like this, bloodied bandages wrapped around his throat, unconscious, it made your stomach turn. physically ill, is the only way to describe it. bile threatens to break the threshold of your pursed couplet, and you feel weak. he didn’t look like your Johnny; he looked like a corpse. the weight of your grief comes down on your shoulders, threatening to crumple you to the floor, and both hands grasp at the doorframe to keep you standing.

inhale. exhale. but you do so as he does, slow and uneven. his breathing is so shallow that it’s worrying you, and you’ve no choice but to stare at the movement of his chest, counting the moments between each one.

Charlie is at your back, and his fingertips linger on your shoulder. “Just relax.”

“I’ll relax when he opens his eyes. When he says my name. When he holds me again. I’ll relax when I have my Johnny back.”

it isn’t too long before another doctor approaches you. perhaps the previous one was too shaken, but you didn’t care. “I’ll have a nurse write up the paperwork. We have to get ready to move him for surgery, it’ll take a few minutes.”

“I want to stay with him.” you murmur, your eyes never leaving Johnny. it was like looking upon your heart, as it had been torn out and laid before you. you never knew how you would live a life without him, and you still didn’t.

the doctor, hesitant, looks to Charlie, who must’ve nodded, because he seems defeated. “All right, but you have to get out of our way when we move him.”

you nod, half hearted, and pass the fleeing lab coats, staggering closer to the bed, staring at him. “Johnny-“ you whisper. quaking digits find the harsh fabric of the sheet and press into it, scaling the length of the bed in an instant. “Did you hear that? They’re getting you ready for surgery.” there’s no response, not even the twitch of his fingers. you frown, collapsing on to the mattress beside his legs. “Can you… can you hear me? Come on, Johnny. You know me. It’s me.”

still nothing. you take a moment to suck in a shaky breath, a new tidal wave of tears ready to decimate your countenance. “You know you can’t leave me, don’t you?” both of your arms wrap around to hug his midsection, resting the side of your face against the sheet. tears soak a patch through it in an instant. “You can’t do that, Johnny Boy. Not to me. You can’t just… you can’t just make me fall in love with you, and then leave me alone. It’s not fair, you know? To play with people’s hearts like that. You have mine, you know that? You have it. It’s yours, and if-“ the lump in your throat returns with a vengeance, your words are broken. “If you take it with you, how will I be okay? Johnny, tell me how to live without you, because I- I- fuck, I don’t know how I can. It doesn’t make sense, you know? Me without you.” you shake your head, burying it in his torso. “Just doesn’t make sense.”

one hand seeks his, and you’re relieved to feel the warmth of it, to feel the impact of his breathing, no matter how shallow. you interlace your fingers, and feel the most subtle of twitches. blinking through fresh, hot tears, you pull back to look at his hand. “Johnny?” you're raspy, incredibly so, to the point that all you can do is whisper, gaping at his expressionless face. you felt it, you know you did. no matter how faint, it was more than he’d given you until now.

just as you’re about to speak again, two nurses breeze into the room. “Miss, we need you to step back so we can take him in for surgery.”

you’d said you would, and so you do. carefully and reluctantly, you peel yourself from him and step back, but hold on to his hand as they bring in the gurney to transport him.

“You’re going to be okay,” you whisper to him, gripping his hand tight, before raising it to kiss his bloodied knuckles. if you could kiss every wound away, you’d do so until your lips were cracked and bleeding. if only it were so easy. “You’re going to be okay. If you can hear me, Johnny, remember what I told you-“ you pause, uncurling your fist from his to press his palm against your chest. you only pray that he can feel the best of your heart, his property, beneath it.

you’re only able to hold his hand for a few more seconds before the hoist him on to the gurney and you’re forced to let his hand slip from yours, like sand through your fingers. there’s a guttural moan, and you see his eyelids flutter. eyes widening, you step closer, and you can see his lips moving. the shape they make when he says your name, but no sound comes out, but his arm reaches out, eyes hazy and searching for you.

luckily, Charlie is there once more to catch you as you clasp your hand over your mouth, sobbing into it. relief, but anguish is directly behind it, as you watch the only man you’ve ever loved leave you for a second time. your shoulders shake, but you clamp your free hand over the first, allowing for the first time, for your knees to buckle.

Charlie is quick to drag you to the chair in the corner, and he kneels beside it as you feel the air around you freeze. your world is dead, dark and cold, until he comes back. “He’s going to be okay,” Charlie offers through your muffled snubbing. “You told him that, yeah? Now, you have to believe it, too. Johnny is going to be okay.”

that sentence brings on a whole other type of tears- happy ones.