Work Text:
It was soft, Patrick mused, Andy's skin. It was smooth with illustrations, almost like a storybook, except Andy was his only copy.
His.
Calloused fingers would trace the designs, pressing harder in the places he knew he would get the best reactions, soft little gasps that bordered needy whimpers. They were musical, soft and serenading, Patrick thought that he should incorporate them into a song. But then again, everyone would have a little bit of Andy then.
Big grey eyes would look into his and Patrick would loose his breath because Andy was as beautiful and pretty as the day he had met him in 2003, all soft smiles, soft crinkles of eyes and sweet giggles, soft and welcome. He would press his lips to Andy’s, as if he could taste the numerous sweet sounds the vegan made, and he would lick at Andy’s lower lip, begging so sweetly for entrance and lap at the crevices.
(Sometimes, Patrick swears, when Andy’s orgasm high, he can taste a whole new fucking field of flowers, varying sweetness and scents. Andy would murmur something about galaxies, rich purples and pinks, overlapped with fresh coral blue, and tasting them in Patrick’s mouth, cheeks flushed prettily. He would make the prettiest sounds when they weren’t making love, a contented sigh, a gasp at touches on bare skin—Patrick argues reasonably that he shouldn’t walk around half naked if he doesn’t want Patrick to be enchanted by the inked flesh to the point of touch.)
When they weren’t due anywhere for a while, Patrick liked to leave marks on Andy’s neck, where, with all the tees and occasional hoodie, would look fairly vibrant. Sometimes he wishes that Andy had more bare skin, or that he’d gotten to the drummer sooner, when he didn’t have as much ink, so he could leave more visible marks and photograph them.
It wasn’t entirely awful though, that just meant Patrick had to take pictures of other things than that. He could work with that. Which is probably the excuse he would use if anyone ever stumbled upon his spank bank album on his phone. In it were various photos of Andy, some of them with his face and body covered in come, others Andy with his lips around Patrick’s cock, (Patrick had gotten the idea once and was certain the next time he could function during a blow job he was going to take a picture), and two of Patrick’s favourites.
One is of Andy, on his knees, leaning on his elbows and forehead resting there too. Patrick’s come leaks from him, and the vocalist swears the whimper Andy made when Patrick pulled out is still engraved in his memory. The other is Andy, with half a dildo inside of him, eyes half lidded as he looks at the camera—when Patrick looks back on this he swears Andy was being serious about doing gay porn and something akin to jealousy curls low in his gut.
But Andy will pepper soft kisses on his neck and along his jaw, whispering ’yours’ in Patrick’s ears. Something warm settles in him, something that Patrick commonly associates with Andy; love.