The next day was more of the same - cleaning. Over and over again until your head buzzed and your hands smelled permanently of disinfectant. You were starting to think the fumes might be killing brain cells. Levi didn’t let up either. If he saw you miss a corner, he made you do the whole damn station again. Not messy enough to be scolded, just... not perfect. And with him, apparently, it had to be.
Eventually, finally, he let you move on to what you were actually there for, practice.
You were working line work today, basic shapes and crisp lines on fake skin taped to a saddle stand. It wasn’t glamorous. Your back already ached from hunching over but you weren’t about to complain. You’d tattoo the soles of your own feet if it meant getting better.
Levi was busier than the day before, mid-way through a full back piece on some gym rat who spent ten full minutes hyping himself up before even taking his shirt off. Now he was face-down on the table, occasionally letting out muffled grunts like he was dying inside but trying to sound tough about it. To his credit, he hadn’t tapped out. Yet.
Even with Levi elbow-deep in that dude’s spine, you still heard his voice bark from across the room.
“Your wrist is too stiff.”
You blinked, pausing. Looked around. How did he even see that?
Another correction came not five minutes later. “Watch your spacing. Bottom left.”
You turned, giving him a slightly wide-eyed, incredulous look. He didn’t even glance up from what he was doing. Just jerked his chin toward something behind you.
You turned.
There was a mirror. A huge, wall-mounted thing behind your station. Perfect view of your entire setup from where he was sitting.
He wasn’t magic, he was just watching… Constantly. Your stomach flipped a little, not unpleasantly. You turned back to your lines and adjusted your wrist angle.
You didn’t hear him correct you after that.
At some point, Levi pulled back from the guy’s back and cleared his throat. Just once. Sharp enough to snap the guy out of his pain trance. The dude groaned, lifting his head like it weighed forty pounds, then slowly pushed himself up on his elbows to look over his shoulder at the mirror.
His eyes lit up. “Yo! That looks sick, man!”
He grinned, wide and a little delirious, eyes flicking between the mirror and Levi like he’d just won a medal.
Levi just raised one brow. “That’s just the outline.”
There was a beat of silence. You could see the exact second that registered.
“Oh.”
Levi didn’t elaborate. Just turned to his tray and held out a juice pouch like this happened every day. Which it probably did. The guy took it with both hands like it was a holy relic, already looking a little green around the edges. He sipped it gingerly, trying very hard not to cry, shoulders hunched and legs slightly shaking as Levi went back to prepping the next round of ink.
You couldn’t help it, you were watching the whole thing unfold with a kind of morbid fascination. Then Levi’s eyes slid to yours, deadpan.
He didn’t say anything, just jerked his head toward your station.
A silent get back to work.
You jumped a little and turned immediately, hunching back over your fake skin like it owed you money. Linework, focus, no distractions. Even still, you smiled to yourself, Levi was intense, kinda scary. But he paid attention. More than most.
Once the shading was done, the guy left, walking gingerly, like his spine had been replaced with glass. He looked pleased, though, tender and sore but happy. Levi gave a noncommittal nod as the door closed behind him, already peeling off his gloves. Then he came over.
You tried not to tense up, tried to stay cool as he approached your little corner, but the way your fingers fumbled slightly with the stencil in your hand said otherwise. You’d been setting it down just as he stopped beside you, watching. And, maybe because of that or maybe because you rushed it, you peeled it off too fast. The stencil reveleaed was patchy, uneven and faint at the top edge, like it got stage fright.
Levi tilted his head, not unkindly, just observant, sharp as always.
“Leave it on longer next time,” he said. “And take it off slower. You act like you’re trying to give them a wax.”
You laughed under your breath, sheepish. “Right. Got it.”
You grabbed the stencil spray and started wiping it off, careful not to look at him too much. He was still standing there. Still watching. You placed a fresh stencil, slower this time, letting it sit properly before removing it with more care. He didn’t say anything right away. Just looked over your lines again, his eyes skimming the fake skin. You suddenly became very aware of every tiny wobble, every place the line dipped just a little, especially that one section where he’d corrected your wrist. It was like every flaw lit up under his gaze.
He hummed.
Then finally, “You’ve got some good weight control.”
You blinked. “Oh. Thanks.”
“But,” he continued, tapping a finger near one of the lines, “keep an eye on your wrist. On curves you stiffen up a bit.” Your eyes followed his gesture, sure enough there was a little break. Barely noticeable, but yeah, it was there.
“And make sure you’re stretching the skin properly,” he added, pointing out another spot where the line had gone a little uneven. “Or this’ll happen everywhere.”
You nodded quickly. “Oh, yeah. I thought I was, but it keeps happening.”
“It's mostly a practice issue.” He shrugged, then reached past you to grab one of the practice sheets you hadn’t used yet. “Forget the stencil stuff for now. It’s all well and good to practice placement, but get the basics down first.”
“Right,” you said again, quieter this time. “Got it.”
He gave a brief nod, something almost approving, and turned away just as quickly, back to sorting his station like he hadn’t just pointed out your weak spots with surgical precision. You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding and leaned back over the skin.
Back to basics, again.
Still, that “good weight control” was going to sit with you for the rest of the day like a trophy.
For the rest of the day, Levi works on smaller tattoos for different people, and you start to notice a pattern, he gets a lot of attention. Not just for the tattoos, though those are flawless. It's him, too. His face. His whole… thing. People flirt, or at least they try. They lean in, laugh a little too hard, ask dumb questions just to keep him talking.
Levi doesn’t care.
Doesn’t smile, doesn’t play along, barely even makes eye contact once the stencil’s on. He finishes the tattoo, wraps them up, and gets them out like he’s allergic to lingering.
You’re adjusting your grip again, finally starting to get the hang of stretching the skin just right, when the shop’s front door creaks open. You glance up and immediately feel the air shift. A woman walks in, she's tall, blonde. Her hair is so dirty it’s actually caked flat against her scalp, and even from across the room, she’s setting off your internal alarms. She heads straight for the reception desk where Petra is taking stock, clipboard in hand. You can’t hear all of it, but the tone is obvious. She’s asking for a walk-in. Petra’s being polite, patient, telling her that walk-ins aren’t done here. The woman doesn’t seem interested in listening. After a minute, she just pushes right past the desk like Petra’s invisible.
Levi straightens up before she even reaches him. His hands go behind his back like he’s just casually standing, but you see it. The tightness in his shoulders, the way his jaw tenses. He’s bracing.
She stops in front of him. He barely comes up to her shoulder, but somehow still looks taller.
“I want something under my arm,” she says, already starting to lift it like she’s about to flash the placement. Levi stops her with a single raised hand.
“I won’t be tattooing you today.”
She freezes, arm half-raised, then slowly crosses them instead.
“And why is that?” she asks, unimpressed. Like she’s waiting for him to backtrack. He doesn’t.
“You don’t have an appointment, you’ve been disrespectful to my staff, and you do not have the necessary hygiene for me to safely give you a tattoo.” He pauses, then adds, without a flicker of hesitation, “I also don’t want to.”
The woman lets out a loud, incredulous guffaw like she can’t believe what she’s hearing. Honestly, neither can you, you’re still trying to figure out if this is really happening. A few more heated words get tossed around, sharp and petty, before she finally storms toward the door, shouting that she’ll never return and they’ve lost a valuable customer. Levi doesn’t dignify it with a response.
He just watches her go, arms crossed, shoulders squared, calm in that unnerving way that makes it clear nothing she said touched him at all. Your eyes catch on the set of his posture, the stretch of muscle across his back under the black cotton of his shirt, and you have to blink yourself out of it before you get caught staring.
But the buzz of your machine dies, paused without you even realizing it.
He notices, because of course he does. Turns just enough to side-eye you, one brow twitching like a silent get back to work.
You fumble, hunch back over your fake skin like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch him grabbing the mop and a spray bottle. He moves to the exact spot the woman had been standing, running the mop across it with slow, purposeful strokes. Like he’s scrubbing away a stain only he can see.
It’s weirdly impressive, how seriously he takes it. How he backed Petra up without even blinking. You glance at her, she’s behind the counter, watching him with her chin in her hand, the softest expression on her face. Honestly, if you weren’t terrified of being caught slacking again, you’d probably be watching her watch him.
Instead, you pick up your machine and try to focus. And fail a little.
You kept staring at the email like it might vanish.
Read it once, then again, and again. Still there.
“Congratulations! You’ve been selected for the Central City Tattoo Apprenticeship Program…”
Your breath caught somewhere in your chest. It didn’t matter that the rest of the message sounded like a government form - boring fonts, weird formatting, language like “randomized placement” and “orientation details attached.” It was real, you were in!
All the hours hunched over practice skins, doodling until your fingers cramped, begging friends to let you ruin them permanently... it paid off.
So obviously, you celebrated the only way that made sense, a new tattoo.
Crow’s Nest Ink had a reputation-one of those places everyone’s heard of but no one can describe, your best friend described it as haunted - in a cool way. Like, "somewhere a hot vampire might work." As she had told you dreamily.
Outside, it was all matte-black brick and smoky windows with a crow-shaped wrought iron sign hung overhead, creaking softly in the wind.
Inside was clean, sparklingly so. Minimalistic, all polished metal and exposed beams. The air smelled like antiseptic, ink, and - ever so faintly - citrus soap. Machines buzzed quietly, each artist lost in their own little bubble.
That’s when you saw him.
Levi.
He looked like he belonged there, his hair neatly undercut, eyes sharp, an expression that didn't waver when he called your name. Just a nod, short and precise, and a gesture to follow him.
He didn’t talk much, just asked what you wanted, glanced at your sketch and raised one eyebrow at your placement.
“You want it here?” His gaze dropped to your sternum. Not judging, just curious.
You shrugged. “Go big or go home, right?”
He didn’t answer, curiosity not so much sated as it was ignored, and just handed you a clipboard and a pen.
Before you knew it, you were lying back in his booth, shirt off, the cold table to your back. His hands moved with careful efficiency - no hesitation, no fumbling, exactly how you hoped to be after your apprenticeship. You watched him prepare the inks and finish setting up with watchful eyes, drinking in his movement as if you would be able to mimic it immediately.
And then the needle started, pain bloomed fast, sharp, but manageable. Your cheek twitches, drawing your lips wider for a moment before you adjust.
“Don’t hold your breath,” he said quietly. “It’ll hurt more.”
You exhaled, not having realised you were holding it in the first place.
The session passed in a blur of buzzing, tingling skin, and steady breathing. He didn’t say much, just worked - calm, focused, completely in his element.
Somewhere near the end, when your body had fully adjusted to the pain and your brain felt floaty from the adrenaline, you couldn’t help yourself.
“Guess I can say I’ve finally got art in my heart now.”
Silence. You almot start to feel embarrassed then, so faint you almost missed it, a smile. Just the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
“You’re an idiot,” he muttered.
But he was still smiling. Barely.
That was the moment everything shifted, even if you didn’t know it yet.
Two days later, you showed up groggy and under-caffeinated to your orientation, half-convinced the email had been a prank.
Everyone sat in clusters, some excited, some nervous. You got your envelope, plain white and heavy then, you opened it.
Read the line once - blinked and read it again.
Studio Placement: Crow’s Nest Ink
Assigned Mentor: Levi Ackerman
You laughed. Actually laughed, right there in the middle of the room.
Fate, apparently, had a sense of humor.
The bell over the studio door jingled as you walked in again, portfolio tucked under your arm. You didn’t see Levi at first, then he appeared behind the counter, arms crossed, watching you.
“Took you long enough,” he said.
You tried to play it cool, despite the fluttering of your heart threatening to betray you. “Miss me already?”
He didn’t answer. Just turned and walked toward the back of the shop, pausing long enough to look over his shoulder.
“Well? Let’s go. I’m not here to babysit.”
You followed, heart pounding.
And maybe it was your imagination, but there was that same almost-smile tugging at his mouth again.
You were screwed.
You didn’t expect a warm welcome, but you’d sort of assumed—based on horror stories from other apprentices—that your mentor would mostly sit in the back and let you flounder, offering the occasional grunt of disapproval, but Levi didn’t flounder.
He pointed at a station and told you to set it up, watched you as you did. Said nothing until you stepped back, thinking you were done.
Then he handed you a fresh pair of gloves.
“Again.”
You blinked. “Was something—?”
“Everything.” He crouched beside the station, pointing. “Cord’s in the way. Tape’s sloppy. Where’s your backup ink cap? Your water’s too far - you think you’ll grab that mid-session without twisting your wrist?”
He didn’t sound angry, just matter-of-fact, almost bored.
You did it again.
This time, he showed you—without commentary—how he did it. Every movement smooth, efficient, everything within reach. You watched like it was surgery.
“Always assume you’re working on someone who might pass out, bleed or panic. If your setup slows you down, it screws you both.”
You nodded, filing the information away.
The next surprise was how hands-on he actually was, no disappearing to the back to scroll on his phone. He hovered, offered corrections, even complimented your stencil placement with a noncommittal nod. You caught the twitch of his brow when you prepped your fake skin without being told. Recognition, the kind that meant more than words would have. But it wasn’t all progress, by the time you’d made it to cleaning the station, you were feeling a little proud. You’d remembered everything he said about positioning, equipment order, cross-contamination, or so you thought.
“You missed the base of the arm.” His voice was sharp for the first time all day. Not angry, just sharp. “Corners too.”
You turned back, squinted. “I thought I—”
“You thought wrong.” He tossed you a spray bottle and fresh towel. “Again.”
You wiped it down again and he investigated it like a military inspection.
“Still missed the gap under the tray lip.”
You stared at it, then at him. “How did you—?”
“That’s where grime and dirt hide. Fluids pool. You want to risk someone’s healing for a shortcut?”
“…No.”
“Didn’t think so. Again.”
You cleaned that station five times before he said “good.”
The rest of the afternoon was fake skin. Linework drills. Whip shading. Fill techniques. All while he worked a small tattoo three stations down—a simple forearm piece, something floral and clean. He didn’t say anything, but once or twice, you caught him watching you between passes of the needle, just for a second each time.
At the end of the day, your hand was cramped, your back hurt, and you could still smell disinfectant under your nails.
But Levi gave you a nod. That was it.
It meant everything.
You left the studio exhausted and floating.
Still not sure what exactly you’d proven, but knowing—somehow—you were a little less screwed than you thought.
