World Cup [larry stylinson a.u.]

30.0

THE BOTTOM

“No, you are not,” I dismiss him, “Shut up.”

“But I am,” he has this extremely annoying smirk on his face and I kind of feel like punching him right now.

“You are not a top because…” I frown as I try to read his expression. Is he kidding or is he not? He has to be kidding, “I’m a top.”

“Well, me too,” he laughs, “What is this reaction I’m getting?”

“You can’t be a top,” I roll my eyes at him, “Look at you. Everything about you screams bottom.”

“Hey,” he warns me, “I could say the same thing about you.”

“What?” This guy is seriously on crack or something. I’m like the first picture that pops out if you google image the word Top. Just try it.

“You look kind of bottomish to me, bubu,” he tries to kiss me again but I put a hand on my mouth to stop him, “You look offended, this is supposed to be a compliment.”

“No, it isn’t,” I walk away from him, “You are kidding, you have to be kidding.”

“I’m not kidding,” his annoying laugh is starting to piss me off. I start to walk faster because my throat feels dry and I need a drink.

The tourist gets closer to me and hugs me from behind, “I’ll top you,” he whispers to my ear.

“Ew!” I yell as I free myself from his bottom guy arms, “You are a bottom. End of discussion.”

“Are you?” A random guy asks and we both turn to him with huge frowns on our faces, “A bottom? Call me if you are,” he winks at the tourist and I feel blood rushing rapidly through my veins.

“Hey!” I warn the random dude, looking as threatening as I possibly can, “Do you mind leaving us alone?”

“Whatever,” he shrugs, “I’d take good care of you, little boy,” he doesn’t even look at me, his eyes are fixated on MY tourist and I’m seriously about to jump over him.

“You seriously need to leave right now,” I tell him, clenching my jaw and fists to show him that I’m ready to take him down if he keeps going. How dare he calling him little boy? I’m the only one who can call him that.

“Don’t get jealous, mate,” he tries to calm me down, “I can top both of you.”

“What the hell?” I walk to him, decided to empty my rage on his stupid US American face. This is exactly what the problem with Yankees is. They think they can just come and take whatever they want. Guess what? Bum has an owner and that would be me.

“I’m so, so sorry,” a very tall girl stops me, “He is just too drunk. I’m really sorry.”

“Let him!” the drunken thief yells as his friends drag him away from us, “I’ll finish him.”

“It’s alright,” the tourist grabs me, “We’ll just go.”

“Thank you so much,” the girls answers and walks away but turns around a few steps later, “Just keep it down. The whole street knows that you are arguing over who will top tonight,” she winks at us.

“No, we are not,” the blush on my face is starting to burn.

“Take turns or something,” she waves and runs to catch her friends.

“How dare she? That’s so disrespectful,” I still can’t believe what just happened, “Take turns. Who takes turns?”

“Oh my God,” the top wannabe is trying not to laugh but I can see how amused he is by all this.