delicacy (lefty ruggiero x reader) [request]
summary: Lefty is angry. Again.
warnings: angst, swearing, abuse, fluff-ish(very ish)
words: 0.5k
notes: this is just a story pls dont let anyone treat you like this irl. enjoy xx
When Lefty starts yelling, you choose to remain silent. Leaving him talking to himself sounded more practical this time; safer. He continued to scream and your eyes, full of tears, were already flowing like a river, but your crying was out of anger. You couldn’t take this situation any longer, you needed to leave immediately.
Breathe.
You hear a loud knocking on the door, yet you don’t dare open it. If it depended on you, he could take it down. You no longer cared about consequences. It was as if you were living dead in your own body, completely desensitised at this point. He always did that and you were just fucking tired.
“Open the door, goddamnit!”, says Lefty, still punching the thick, heavy wood.
You take a deep breath and decide to let him in, unable to look him in the eye yet. You lower your head and walk back to the bed. You no longer cried, although your eyes were sombre. A loud sigh escapes his lips. A clearing of the throat, a step towards you, and you instinctively shrink into the mattress, fearful of what he might do to you.
He notices this, his angry features now turning soft and concerned. Apologetic. “Don’t do that, baby...”
“My body reacts and it’s my fault?”, you question, petulant, exhausted, irritated. Lefty lets out another sigh before sitting next to you, running his hand over your thigh gently, and it almost feels like a joke. How can he be so violent one moment, and so delicate another? You finally look into his eyes, feeling your voice ripping your throat in pathetic desperation. “Why are you like this, Lefty?”
“Like what, (y/n)?”, Left huffs, his annoyance making a comeback, albeit more contained now. “You keep questioning my fucking work, you got with me knowing what I do. You think it’s okay that I'm criticised all the time by my own wife? Because for me, it isn’t”, he raises his voice, but his hand doesn’t stop touching you with that same tender rhythm. You escape his incisive gaze for a second and he grabs your chin to look at him again. “Either you accept me the way I am and what I do, or this ain’t gonna work. You choose, baby.”
“You keep hurting me”, it’s all you can muster in words, and they waver despite your efforts to speak firmly. “Can’t you see that? You yell, you break things. You make me scared.”
Lefty’s eyes fall to the floor in shame. He knows you’re right. Part of him breaks looking at you so small, so defenceless because of him. And when it seems like nothing’s going to give, he squeezes your leg faintly and pulls you into a tight embrace. You let him hold you in his arms in complete silence, crying quietly on his chest.
“I’m sorry, darling”, he coos, caressing your hair with the same delicacy you know it’s always there for you, even though sometimes it stays deeply buried under his rough exterior. “I swear I’m gonna make it up to you if you let me.”
You can’t help but smile softly against his jacket, clinging to it for dear life. “Okay.”
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if it was going to be anyone, I'm glad it was him, alright?
Donnie Brasco, Mike Newell (1997)
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