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Description

Levi hates it when you fall into these states of depression. He hates having to watch your smile disappear and never brighten his entire life for days, sometimes even several unbearable and agonizing weeks. There are times when you look so exhausted and the weariness in your step and everything you do make him reach out and hold you, silently and secretly fearing you would collapse on whatever surface you are barely able to hold yourself up on. Tension from your bones unwinding as he gently runs his fingers through your hair, words seeping from the tender movements; a thousand apologies for not coming to you sooner, an “I love you” in between his unspoken “I’m sorry.” The kitchen had already witnessed this; his back pressed the side of the counter as he fell with you to the smooth wooden floor he cleaned just that morning. The bedroom, another witness.

“Baby,” you whisper now, beneath him after he tried restoring you with frantic kisses and snaps of his hips.

He brushes a hair from the front of your lips before you can say anything else, for once open about his admiration for you as he boldly eyes you up and down. Knowing what you plan to say, something stupid and along the lines of, “I’m sorry for bothering you with my depression,” he presses a finger to your mouth. When you lick it softly he knows he’s brought you back.

“Don’t.” He smirks down at you. “Stop being a dumbass. You better not say it.”

It’s the closest he’ll give you to words of affection.

Sometimes it only takes a walk to the park to mend your fragile, beautiful heart.

He drapes an arm over your shoulders, and with a hand he tilts your chin up so your tired eyes meet his. You’d been experiencing some writer’s block and it had left you and your Tumblr fans more than a little melancholic, and he figured some fresh air and coffee (black tea for him) at your favorite spot would help.

“Why don’t I help you with that little shitty gremlin called writer’s block?” he leans forward, and the tip of your nose meets his. “We can have a little fun in bed later, hmm? For… smut. Is that what it’s called? The shit you read every day?”

He’s able to pull a laugh out of you. He nearly combusts, but the expression on his features is nothing short of emotionless, in spite of his earlier suggestive words.

“Guess that’ll help,” you say with a smile, “But I need some ideas for angst and fluff fic ideas. I’ve got too much porn on my acc.”

“Call Jean and Eren for the angst. Dramatic little dickheads they are, fighting over pens in class.”

“And Mikasa.”

He breathes an amused sigh. “Maybe you can do something about us. Search your memory bank ‘cause I’m not looking for anything.”

“Alright, babe. Thanks.” You kiss his cheek, and he nudges you with his nose until you pay attention to his lips. He could be one big baby sometimes. “Love you.”

Sometimes it takes more than simple strolls around the park near your house. Sometimes you need more than his embrace and kisses. And in those times, it always breaks him when he realizes that he isn’t enough for you.

“Babe, let me in.” He’s torn apart by the muffled and less-than-pretty wheezes and sobs coming from the bathroom. One clenched fist resists banging the door down to get to you because he knows that doing that will not only traumatize you but pull you even further away from him in inexplicably painful ways.

The bathroom: a place he wants to trash, because you always end up finding solace there instead of in his arms. But thinking about it now, why would you run to him?

“I—I” —he suppresses a yell, because you sound so hurt and he just wants to burn himself— “W-why should I t-trust you?”

“Please, just let me explain,” he begs, and he would even fall to his knees if it meant getting your forgiveness. “I’m… sorry.”

You grow relatively silent, because he can still hear you sniffling and hiccupping. He swallows and takes it as an opportunity to apologize.

He had hit you.

And he wants to obliterate himself for that. He doesn’t know. He’d do anything to turn back time, to stop himself from striking your angelic face.

He’d done it in a moment of jealousy and anger, because Erwin had flirted with you and even touched you where only he was allowed to, he had remained silent for the entire trip back home from the school. And as soon as the door closed behind him he’d begun yelling. He’d even called you a slut. Backed you up into the wall, snarled at you, punched the space of wall beside your head and shouted. Asked if you were cheating on him. Felt nothing but unadulterated rage as flashes of Erwin’s hands all over you passed through his eyes.

Then he’d hit you when you shouted right back at him, tired of all of it when he should have known you loved only him, got right up in his face. And your head had snapped to the side with the force of his hand.

It took him a second after realizing what he’d just done to reach for you, for his anger to quell, for the storm in his eyes to soften. But you were already upstairs, bathroom door locked, crying into your hands.

“I was jealous.” He knew you knew that. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have hit you. It was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. I should have been calm. I shouldn’t have turned this into one stupid bout of fuckery. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m sorry I yelled. I’m sorry I hit you, (Name).” He says your name for the first time since the rendezvous in the shower this morning.

It’s a shitty apology. He’s sure of it. But how in the hell could he ever describe the remorse he feels? Not a single word in the English dictionary would ever be able to convey how much he wants to fold you into his arms and say sorry over and over again.

Despite that, the door opens. Slowly.

“Baby, I—“

“Shut up.” He clenches his jaw and waits for you to speak. “Say it to my face.”

His eyes linger on the forming bruise on your cheek, and hesitantly he brings his hand to your face. You don’t pull away, and he gingerly strokes your countenance in an apology before repeating his words.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have hit you. It was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. I should have been calm. I shouldn’t have turned this into one stupid bout of fuckery. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m sorry I yelled. I’m sorry I hit you, (Name).”

You pull the door wide open. He steps inside and holds your face in his hands. He whispers an I’m sorry again. Instinctively you fall into him. He says sorry again. And again, and again, and again.

“Stop that.” You peek up from his chest, because maybe you’re still a little scared, but you overcome the shaking of your hands to thread your fingers into his hair and pull his lips to yours. “It’s okay,” you breathe against his touch.

“I love you so damn much,” he murmurs through his insistent kisses, a hand on the back of your head as he slowly spins you around and pins you to the bathroom wall. “So fucking much.”

Description

Levi hates it when you fall into these states of depression. He hates having to watch your smile disappear and never brighten his entire life for days, sometimes even several unbearable and agonizing weeks. There are times when you look so exhausted and the weariness in your step and everything you do make him reach out and hold you, silently and secretly fearing you would collapse on whatever surface you are barely able to hold yourself up on. Tension from your bones unwinding as he gently runs his fingers through your hair, words seeping from the tender movements; a thousand apologies for not coming to you sooner, an “I love you” in between his unspoken “I’m sorry.” The kitchen had already witnessed this; his back pressed the side of the counter as he fell with you to the smooth wooden floor he cleaned just that morning. The bedroom, another witness.

“Baby,” you whisper now, beneath him after he tried restoring you with frantic kisses and snaps of his hips.

He brushes a hair from the front of your lips before you can say anything else, for once open about his admiration for you as he boldly eyes you up and down. Knowing what you plan to say, something stupid and along the lines of, “I’m sorry for bothering you with my depression,” he presses a finger to your mouth. When you lick it softly he knows he’s brought you back.

“Don’t.” He smirks down at you. “Stop being a dumbass. You better not say it.”

It’s the closest he’ll give you to words of affection.

Sometimes it only takes a walk to the park to mend your fragile, beautiful heart.

He drapes an arm over your shoulders, and with a hand he tilts your chin up so your tired eyes meet his. You’d been experiencing some writer’s block and it had left you and your Tumblr fans more than a little melancholic, and he figured some fresh air and coffee (black tea for him) at your favorite spot would help.

“Why don’t I help you with that little shitty gremlin called writer’s block?” he leans forward, and the tip of your nose meets his. “We can have a little fun in bed later, hmm? For… smut. Is that what it’s called? The shit you read every day?”

He’s able to pull a laugh out of you. He nearly combusts, but the expression on his features is nothing short of emotionless, in spite of his earlier suggestive words.

“Guess that’ll help,” you say with a smile, “But I need some ideas for angst and fluff fic ideas. I’ve got too much porn on my acc.”

“Call Jean and Eren for the angst. Dramatic little dickheads they are, fighting over pens in class.”

“And Mikasa.”

He breathes an amused sigh. “Maybe you can do something about us. Search your memory bank ‘cause I’m not looking for anything.”

“Alright, babe. Thanks.” You kiss his cheek, and he nudges you with his nose until you pay attention to his lips. He could be one big baby sometimes. “Love you.”

Sometimes it takes more than simple strolls around the park near your house. Sometimes you need more than his embrace and kisses. And in those times, it always breaks him when he realizes that he isn’t enough for you.

“Babe, let me in.” He’s torn apart by the muffled and less-than-pretty wheezes and sobs coming from the bathroom. One clenched fist resists banging the door down to get to you because he knows that doing that will not only traumatize you but pull you even further away from him in inexplicably painful ways.

The bathroom: a place he wants to trash, because you always end up finding solace there instead of in his arms. But thinking about it now, why would you run to him?

“I—I” —he suppresses a yell, because you sound so hurt and he just wants to burn himself— “W-why should I t-trust you?”

“Please, just let me explain,” he begs, and he would even fall to his knees if it meant getting your forgiveness. “I’m… sorry.”

You grow relatively silent, because he can still hear you sniffling and hiccupping. He swallows and takes it as an opportunity to apologize.

He had hit you.

And he wants to obliterate himself for that. He doesn’t know. He’d do anything to turn back time, to stop himself from striking your angelic face.

He’d done it in a moment of jealousy and anger, because Erwin had flirted with you and even touched you where only he was allowed to, he had remained silent for the entire trip back home from the school. And as soon as the door closed behind him he’d begun yelling. He’d even called you a slut. Backed you up into the wall, snarled at you, punched the space of wall beside your head and shouted. Asked if you were cheating on him. Felt nothing but unadulterated rage as flashes of Erwin’s hands all over you passed through his eyes.

Then he’d hit you when you shouted right back at him, tired of all of it when he should have known you loved only him, got right up in his face. And your head had snapped to the side with the force of his hand.

It took him a second after realizing what he’d just done to reach for you, for his anger to quell, for the storm in his eyes to soften. But you were already upstairs, bathroom door locked, crying into your hands.

“I was jealous.” He knew you knew that. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have hit you. It was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. I should have been calm. I shouldn’t have turned this into one stupid bout of fuckery. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m sorry I yelled. I’m sorry I hit you, (Name).” He says your name for the first time since the rendezvous in the shower this morning.

It’s a shitty apology. He’s sure of it. But how in the hell could he ever describe the remorse he feels? Not a single word in the English dictionary would ever be able to convey how much he wants to fold you into his arms and say sorry over and over again.

Despite that, the door opens. Slowly.

“Baby, I—“

“Shut up.” He clenches his jaw and waits for you to speak. “Say it to my face.”

His eyes linger on the forming bruise on your cheek, and hesitantly he brings his hand to your face. You don’t pull away, and he gingerly strokes your countenance in an apology before repeating his words.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have hit you. It was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. I should have been calm. I shouldn’t have turned this into one stupid bout of fuckery. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m sorry I yelled. I’m sorry I hit you, (Name).”

You pull the door wide open. He steps inside and holds your face in his hands. He whispers an I’m sorry again. Instinctively you fall into him. He says sorry again. And again, and again, and again.

“Stop that.” You peek up from his chest, because maybe you’re still a little scared, but you overcome the shaking of your hands to thread your fingers into his hair and pull his lips to yours. “It’s okay,” you breathe against his touch.

“I love you so damn much,” he murmurs through his insistent kisses, a hand on the back of your head as he slowly spins you around and pins you to the bathroom wall. “So fucking much.”