hipsters only piss in the woods (1/1)
Title: hipsters only piss in the woods
Author:
preach_electric
Rating: R. ish.
Pairing: Darren Criss/Chord Overstreet
Warning/Spoilers: None.
Word Count: 1167
Disclaimer: Not real.
Summary: Chord realizes at Coachella that Darren Criss is the most ridiculous person in the world.
Author's Note: I'mnovelized's bitch. That's why this shit exists.
“You’re kind of a fucking idiot, dude,” Mark says, slurping at his lukewarm beer, watching while Chord tries to figure out the flash settings on Darren’s iPhone.
“Huh?” Darren says, his tongue sticking out of his mouth while he twists and turns, trying to see his own back while he waits for Chord to just take the fucking picture already because Darren would like to see his handiwork, please.
“You do kinda look like you just walked out of a kindergarten classroom after handing a bunch of sugar-hyped children a set of fingerpaints,” Chord muttered, finally snapping the picture. He lets out a whoop of triumph before he hands the phone back to Darren, grinning proudly.
“Creepy, Overstreet,” Mark says, popping his hip out and propping his hand there. Chord shoots him a look and Mark just shrugs, staring off into the throngs of half-naked people wandering back and forth around them, splitting off and weaving past like schools of colorful, drunk fish.
“You’re kind of like Picasso, Chord,” Darren raves, squinting at his phone in the sunlight.
“… Dude, all I did was slap your back with a paint brush a few times.”
“Jackson Pollock, then. Idiot savant of art,” Darren mumbles, carefully tucking his phone back into his pocket, as to not get any paint on it, even though there’s already a smear of yellow on the back from Chord’s thumb.
“You do realize you’re going to be wearing that paint for days after this, right?” Mark asks, tossing his beer cup into the trash.
“Nah, it’s body paint. It’s meant to wash off,” Darren says, shrugging. He rolls his shoulders a few times, his skin stretching uncomfortably from the dried paint and the dull burn underneath, from the sun he’d gotten before he stumbled into that tent full of paint and went hog wild. “Though I don’t know if I’m gonna get it off my dick for a while,” he jokes, wiggling his eyebrows at Mark.
Mark wrinkles his nose and stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Thought I made it clear that only Sallingstreet’s in the business of dick talk, Criss.”
“You guys have dick talk rules?” Darren asks, looking vaguely confused and painfully excited all at the same time. Chord just shuffles awkwardly and ruffles a hand through his hair, staring determinedly at a lopsided green flower on one of Darren’s abs.
“I’m not in the business of dick talk with anyone, dude,” Chord says, and Mark lets out a laugh so hard that a tiny girl with a wreath of fucking dandelions jumps and scowls at him through her knockoff Ray Bans.
“Yeah, I know. You turned me down. Bitch,” Mark scoffs, still coughing out quiet laughs while Darren just watches, still confused.
“How about some shade?” Chord says, clapping his hands and waving them towards one of the tents set up in the distance, near the only set of bathrooms that aren’t disgusting Port-a-potties.
“I’m gonna get another beer,” Mark huffs and heads off in the opposite direction.
“I’ve gotta piss anyway,” Darren says and makes a beeline for the bathrooms, Chord tagging along.
--
“So, were you like, being serious back there?” Chord asks, leaning on one of the sinks. The bathrooms are surprisingly empty. Apparently hipsters only piss in the woods, or something.
Darren leans over the next sink, splashing water on his face a few times to cool down. He doesn’t know how Mark and Chord aren’t dying in the heat with their shirts still on. “About what?”
“About the, uh, you know,” Chord says eloquently, waving a hand. Darren blinks up at him, confused. “When you said you had paint on your dick,” Chord blurts out in a rush, his hand flailing around even more wildly.
Darren smirks and laughs, ducking his face back down to the sink. Chord shifts awkwardly, about to ask if he was just going to laugh at him and ignore the question or actually tell him, because he’s really quite curious to know if Darren actually palmed his dick with body paint at a fucking hipster festival. Because he’s pretty sure that would make Darren the most ridiculous person he’s ever met. Ever. If he didn’t have enough proof already.
“You letting me in on your dick talk club, Chord?” Darren asks finally, his voice muffled behind his hands as he splashes more water on his face.
“Dude, I’m just curious, you don’t have to like, make fun of me about it,” Chord replies, defensively, and Darren straightens up and rolls his eyes.
Then, as if it’s fucking nothing, Darren just unzips his shorts and shoves them down, pulling his dick out. Chord chokes on the spot, torn between laughing and gasping, because one: Darren Criss has his dick out in a dirty bathroom, in the middle of thousands of people, two: He’s not wearing any underwear, the asshole, and three: he’s got a bright red handprint wrapped around his dick and Chord can’t stop staring at it.
“It’s edible,” Darren says mysteriously, and waves his hands in the air, wiggling his fingers.
Chord’s mouth drops open a little at that and he doesn’t even realize it when he blurts out, “Can I taste it?”
Darren laughs, hard, and puts his hands on his hips. “I don’t know, can you?” he says, between laughs and Chord realizes that Darren doesn’t know he’s being serious. Chord really does want to taste it, damnit. And that’s how Chord ends up dropping to his knees and tugging Darren forward by his hips.
Actions speak louder than words, and all that shit, right? Chord was never good at words anyway.
Darren’s suddenly quiet, his hands slipping down to rest over Chord’s fingers as he stares down at him, questioning. “… What are you doing?”
“Tasting,” Chord says simply, shrugging once before he ducks down and takes most of Darren’s cock into his mouth in one go. Darren gasps and laughs at the same time, his fingers digging into the back of Chord’s hands. Chord just smirks around Darren’s dick as his tongue presses along the underside of the shaft, tasting at the stripe of paint there, from Darren’s thumb, he assumes.
He pulls back suddenly and licks at his lips, staring at the smeared paint on Darren’s dick. “Tastes kinda like strawberries. And dick,” he says.
“No dick talk, shut up, Chord,” Darren groans, tugging him forward by his hair.
Chord can’t argue with that.
--
“I think I’m up for dick talk,” Chord muses later that night, while the three of them are sitting at the top of a small hill, situated under a tree with a half-empty pitcher of beer between them.
Mark sits upright and grins at him all lopsided and excited, and Chord just snorts.
“Never said I was up for it with you,” he corrects, tipping his cup toward Mark.
Darren just tilts his head down and grins, watching Chord lick his lips out of the corner of his vision.
Author:
preach_electricRating: R. ish.
Pairing: Darren Criss/Chord Overstreet
Warning/Spoilers: None.
Word Count: 1167
Disclaimer: Not real.
Summary: Chord realizes at Coachella that Darren Criss is the most ridiculous person in the world.
Author's Note: I'm
novelized's bitch. That's why this shit exists.“You’re kind of a fucking idiot, dude,” Mark says, slurping at his lukewarm beer, watching while Chord tries to figure out the flash settings on Darren’s iPhone.
“Huh?” Darren says, his tongue sticking out of his mouth while he twists and turns, trying to see his own back while he waits for Chord to just take the fucking picture already because Darren would like to see his handiwork, please.
“You do kinda look like you just walked out of a kindergarten classroom after handing a bunch of sugar-hyped children a set of fingerpaints,” Chord muttered, finally snapping the picture. He lets out a whoop of triumph before he hands the phone back to Darren, grinning proudly.
“Creepy, Overstreet,” Mark says, popping his hip out and propping his hand there. Chord shoots him a look and Mark just shrugs, staring off into the throngs of half-naked people wandering back and forth around them, splitting off and weaving past like schools of colorful, drunk fish.
“You’re kind of like Picasso, Chord,” Darren raves, squinting at his phone in the sunlight.
“… Dude, all I did was slap your back with a paint brush a few times.”
“Jackson Pollock, then. Idiot savant of art,” Darren mumbles, carefully tucking his phone back into his pocket, as to not get any paint on it, even though there’s already a smear of yellow on the back from Chord’s thumb.
“You do realize you’re going to be wearing that paint for days after this, right?” Mark asks, tossing his beer cup into the trash.
“Nah, it’s body paint. It’s meant to wash off,” Darren says, shrugging. He rolls his shoulders a few times, his skin stretching uncomfortably from the dried paint and the dull burn underneath, from the sun he’d gotten before he stumbled into that tent full of paint and went hog wild. “Though I don’t know if I’m gonna get it off my dick for a while,” he jokes, wiggling his eyebrows at Mark.
Mark wrinkles his nose and stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Thought I made it clear that only Sallingstreet’s in the business of dick talk, Criss.”
“You guys have dick talk rules?” Darren asks, looking vaguely confused and painfully excited all at the same time. Chord just shuffles awkwardly and ruffles a hand through his hair, staring determinedly at a lopsided green flower on one of Darren’s abs.
“I’m not in the business of dick talk with anyone, dude,” Chord says, and Mark lets out a laugh so hard that a tiny girl with a wreath of fucking dandelions jumps and scowls at him through her knockoff Ray Bans.
“Yeah, I know. You turned me down. Bitch,” Mark scoffs, still coughing out quiet laughs while Darren just watches, still confused.
“How about some shade?” Chord says, clapping his hands and waving them towards one of the tents set up in the distance, near the only set of bathrooms that aren’t disgusting Port-a-potties.
“I’m gonna get another beer,” Mark huffs and heads off in the opposite direction.
“I’ve gotta piss anyway,” Darren says and makes a beeline for the bathrooms, Chord tagging along.
--
“So, were you like, being serious back there?” Chord asks, leaning on one of the sinks. The bathrooms are surprisingly empty. Apparently hipsters only piss in the woods, or something.
Darren leans over the next sink, splashing water on his face a few times to cool down. He doesn’t know how Mark and Chord aren’t dying in the heat with their shirts still on. “About what?”
“About the, uh, you know,” Chord says eloquently, waving a hand. Darren blinks up at him, confused. “When you said you had paint on your dick,” Chord blurts out in a rush, his hand flailing around even more wildly.
Darren smirks and laughs, ducking his face back down to the sink. Chord shifts awkwardly, about to ask if he was just going to laugh at him and ignore the question or actually tell him, because he’s really quite curious to know if Darren actually palmed his dick with body paint at a fucking hipster festival. Because he’s pretty sure that would make Darren the most ridiculous person he’s ever met. Ever. If he didn’t have enough proof already.
“You letting me in on your dick talk club, Chord?” Darren asks finally, his voice muffled behind his hands as he splashes more water on his face.
“Dude, I’m just curious, you don’t have to like, make fun of me about it,” Chord replies, defensively, and Darren straightens up and rolls his eyes.
Then, as if it’s fucking nothing, Darren just unzips his shorts and shoves them down, pulling his dick out. Chord chokes on the spot, torn between laughing and gasping, because one: Darren Criss has his dick out in a dirty bathroom, in the middle of thousands of people, two: He’s not wearing any underwear, the asshole, and three: he’s got a bright red handprint wrapped around his dick and Chord can’t stop staring at it.
“It’s edible,” Darren says mysteriously, and waves his hands in the air, wiggling his fingers.
Chord’s mouth drops open a little at that and he doesn’t even realize it when he blurts out, “Can I taste it?”
Darren laughs, hard, and puts his hands on his hips. “I don’t know, can you?” he says, between laughs and Chord realizes that Darren doesn’t know he’s being serious. Chord really does want to taste it, damnit. And that’s how Chord ends up dropping to his knees and tugging Darren forward by his hips.
Actions speak louder than words, and all that shit, right? Chord was never good at words anyway.
Darren’s suddenly quiet, his hands slipping down to rest over Chord’s fingers as he stares down at him, questioning. “… What are you doing?”
“Tasting,” Chord says simply, shrugging once before he ducks down and takes most of Darren’s cock into his mouth in one go. Darren gasps and laughs at the same time, his fingers digging into the back of Chord’s hands. Chord just smirks around Darren’s dick as his tongue presses along the underside of the shaft, tasting at the stripe of paint there, from Darren’s thumb, he assumes.
He pulls back suddenly and licks at his lips, staring at the smeared paint on Darren’s dick. “Tastes kinda like strawberries. And dick,” he says.
“No dick talk, shut up, Chord,” Darren groans, tugging him forward by his hair.
Chord can’t argue with that.
--
“I think I’m up for dick talk,” Chord muses later that night, while the three of them are sitting at the top of a small hill, situated under a tree with a half-empty pitcher of beer between them.
Mark sits upright and grins at him all lopsided and excited, and Chord just snorts.
“Never said I was up for it with you,” he corrects, tipping his cup toward Mark.
Darren just tilts his head down and grins, watching Chord lick his lips out of the corner of his vision.
