You look so gorgeous.

His gorgeous boy. You're laying on your stomach, stretched across his tattoo bench. He's still preparing everything, prepping the needle and the ink. And you're laying there, patiently. He feels like some middle schooler. Every time he glances at you, he gets distacted. He's sure if he stares at you long enough he'll explode.

You've dated him for at least a few months, and he feels like some lovesick fool anytime you're near him. He loved your hair, your clothes, everything. Everything. From the shape of your back to the way you move, he's head-over-heels. For some guy he didn't even think existed two years ago.(His dream man)

You glance back at him and smile. He chuckles awkwardly, his hands suddenly more clammy than they were ten seconds ago. But even when you put your face back down, he still feels lingering butterflies in his stomach.

"You, uh, ready?" He asked, hovering over you now. His legs are wobbling like a motherfucker. The few seconds after he saw you nod, he started tattooing your back. He watched as the needle pumped in and out, pushing ink down into your skin. "It's, uh, pretty cool," He didn't know what the hell was cool, the needle, the design, you? He couldn't tell.