Ash lay sprawled on his stomach across the worn couch in the back of the tour bus, shirtless and utterly still. His back was already a chaotic masterpiece: real tattoos crisscrossing over his skin, with a new layer of small, bright sticker tattoos you’d started applying half an hour ago.

“You’re using me as a sticker book,” Ash muttered, voice muffled against the cushion beneath him.

You smirked, perched on his lower back as you peeled another sticker from the sheet in your hand. “You have no one to blame but yourself,” you said, smoothing the tattoo onto his shoulder blade.

“For what?” he asked, lifting his head slightly, his dark hair falling into his eyes.

“For lying there and letting me,” you shot back. You leaned forward, bracing yourself on his back as you worked the sticker down with precision.

He groaned, more from habit than actual annoyance. “You’re heavy,” he grumbled.

“Want me to get up?” you asked, glancing down at him.

Ash turned his head, his dark, perpetually unimpressed eyes flicking up to meet yours. “No,” he said simply, shifting just enough to hook an arm under his head, letting his hand rest casually on your leg.