World Cup [larry stylinson a.u.]

33.0

THE CUTIE

“Hey,” he calls me back to earth, “Up here,” he says with a smirk as he points to his face and I automatically blush.

“Sorry,” I stutter, “I wasn’t staring at your-”

“Yes, you were,” he interrupts me, the sexy smirk still glued to his face, “And I’m happy that you were,” he winks. This guy seriously needs to teach me some of his moves to be as charming as he is.

Not that I’m not charming because God knows that being charming is probably my biggest talent. Well, second biggest talent. The first one is, okay, you already know. Shoot! Why am I already thinking about sex? How can people not have sex for long? It’s been like… Oh my God! It’s been almost two weeks, I might just write a book about this. I can’t believe I’m still alive and walking.

“You are doing it again,” the torso glued to this marvelous butt talks to me and I look up to see that the face matches the beauty of the lower half.

“Sorry,” I shrug, “I, I, I,” I’m lame.

“It’s okay,” the bitch is still smirking.

Someone needs to either punch his face or fuck him really hard to erase that tempting smirk out of his face. I don’t know why I’m thinking about this but I’m going all Katniss here. I volunteer, I volunteer as a tribute for that task!

Oh, dear God. I need a cold shower and run away from this guy ASAP.

“Quatro caipirinhas,” he tries to speak Portuguese but his accent is even worse than mine and, I know you haven’t heard my Portuguese skills yet but being worse than me means being really really bad.

I see the guy who sells the alcohol grabbing some cups but Ansel stops him. I can’t believe I’m using his real name. I hate myself so much right now but I can’t freaking come up with a clever nickname and I don’t even know why.

“No,” he rushes to say, “The big ones,” he points at some very very large plastic cups. I like his way of thinking. “The bigger, the better,” he turns around to look at me and his eyes, shamelessly, land on my crotch. Someone’s hard.

“You got four?” I ask, very surprised.

“Yup,” he answers and turns around to thank the dude, “Obrigado,” he tells him. His accent is only getting worse and I can’t help but think that my tourist’s accent kicks the hell out of this guy’s accent’s butt. Shit, my tourist. Why am I still here? Why? Why? Why?

“I should get going,” I say sheepishly.

“Nice try,” he grabs my arm, “You are not going anywhere right now,” he says and empties one of the cups in one long drink.

“Wow,” my mouth drops open, “You are good at it.”

“I’m the best,” he adds proudly while he shakes his head to ease the alcohol rush.

“Nice try,” I say as I grab the second cup to empty it faster than him, “I’m better.”

“Wow,” he just stays there, staring at me and I suddenly feel like a big and tasty looking burger, “You just got one hundred times hotter,” he gets closer to me, “And you were already super hot before so just try to imagine how into you I am right now.”

“Give me the second cup,” I demand. I just drank one liter of caipirinha but I need more alcohol because all I can think of right now is the beautiful small guy who’s waiting for me at the bar. I suck.