Laverna [ Levi Ackerman x Reader ]

↳ 𝟏.𝟕𝐚 - 𝐆𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬

TW: This chapter will contain graphic depictions of violence and mentions of death. Please read at your discretion.

WHEN YOUR PARENTS weren't home, they were working at a bar, earning money in a more "honest" way than most.

That bar was where most of your early memories took place. It made sense, considering your parents didn't want to leave you home alone or with a stranger.

Even though it was considered one of the more "high-end" bars in the Underground, the floors glittered with shattered glass, and there were always shards scattered about even after someone cleaned. As you grew up, some of the floorboards (the ones stained with either blood or alcohol) had been pried up and replaced— but it didn't make much sense when the visible difference between new and old was night and day.

Though you grew up there, it had been years since you'd visited.

One morning, however, you were rushing back, the directions coming to you as naturally as breathing.

Your parents met as children and later worked together. Your father was a bartender, your mother was a waitress, and you were a surprise.

You were lucky that your parents were involved in your childhood.

But growing up there did have its downsides— one of which was captured by your first memory.

You were a handful at three years old.

Your poor mother was handing out food (while hiding her discomfort at the men who touched her in passing), and your father had just finished his shift. He stood by a window outside, talking to some spindly guy wearing a bowler hat.

You were so busy watching him that you didn't notice when a stranger approached you. Your ignorance didn't last long, though.

"Hey there, little miss."

The man scooped you up and turned your little body to face him, holding you under your armpits and keeping you suspended. You dangled like a rag doll.

He looked strange. He had a patchy beard and eyes like pinpricks of ink, and his breath wreaked of liquor.

"Murphy! C'mere!" he shouted, some of his spit landing in your face.

"That's her mom," the person said, pointing to your mother (who was serving a table). "If that's the case, there's no doubt she'll be a looker by the time she grows up."

"You think anyone would notice if we took her?"

"Maybe her whore mother, but other than that, I doubt it."

The front door swung open, and in marched your father, his face ripe with anger.

"Get the hell away from my daughter!" he shouted.

"Shit—!"

You were too bewildered to focus on what happened. The next thing you remembered was being in your father's arms, bawling and inconsolable.

He took you outside, where the stranger waited for him. The man said something playful, to which your father ignored him— instead, bouncing you to try and calm you down.

"I'm sorry about the ruckus, sweetheart," your father said as you hid your face in his chest. "Just... calm down, will you? I know I'm not mom, but we can't have you crying when I'm talking business."

It wasn't your fondest memory, but your first memory nonetheless.

Snapping back to your senses, you realized you were passing by an open area cradled by decrepit buildings. It was a place you'd passed many times before— a square that used to bustle with life, now dying from old age— and on any other day, it meant nothing.