Deep black lines of ink litter your boyfriend's arms and chest, in a variety of patterns and swirls that are illuminated by the soft haze of the bedroom lamp as your fingers carefully traced over each tattoo that adorns Leon's skin, your legs straddled over his waist as you sat on top of him, exploring the warmth of his skin as he showed off his tattoos to you like he does most nights.

Of the many things you loved about Leon's appearance—from the piercing that juts out of his lip or on his tongue, to his muscles that hold onto you so tightly and that tense up whenever your fingertips brush against them—you adored his tattoos the most, and he regularly would get new ones just so that you could look at them during the more intimate parts of your relationship.

As your fingers trace a path along the thin lines on his hipbone, Leon bites his lip to fight back a giggle—the way your fingers brushed against him tickling him slightly, making him suck in a soft breath as his blue eyes glimmer in the light, watching you with intensity and desire.

"You know, baby," he murmurs with a small smirk, one that instantly told you that he was just being a smart-ass. His voice is as soft as the quiet volume of the soft rock music playing in the background, as his fingers reached up to brush over your forearm to draw your attention.

"If you keep rubbing at them like that, they're gonna come off."