((No idea if his place is on the East Side or at the Headquarters, move the thread if I goofed.))

Zlatan's gaze scaled up and down the building the duo had pulled up to. He didn't doubt that his time at the Austrian....Purger estate had spoiled him, but the building was still homely, it just lacked the near-grotesque excess of detailing governor homes lavished upon themselves in abundance. Like painted whores. Pathetic. A shit stain was still a shit stain no matter how dolled up, and a 'shit stain' was exactly what his mother's home had turned into. Too many Purgers.

The Dalmatian peeled his arms from Uroš's waist and swung off the pale bike. "....Lipo misto."

The compliment simmered to a wispy mutter that wasn't entirely there.

"Christ."

A frustrated sigh escaped the man. This was pathetic. He was being pathetic, and he could do better than give defeated mutters and moans. Life went on, with or without bitchy cousins.

He waited for the Serb to join him--before gripping the younger man's wind-whipped face to pull him into a 'thank you' that was entirely sincere...if borderline pornographic. However sleazy Uroš may have tasted he at least tasted familiar. It was comforting.

Zlatan broke the kiss with a nip at the other's lip.

"Haaaa~ Look who's playing hero."

((Short. And. Shitty. /flops))

He still wasn't entirely sure what had happened.

He still wasn't entirely sure if he wanted to know; for some reason, Croat family drama had the potential to become even more ridiculous than Serb family drama, and that was just way too much drama for Uros to have to deal with when he was just starting to come down. All he knew--and wanted to know--was that Zlatan had asked him to scoop him up and give him a home. And that was okay with him.

He still didn't expect the rather generous response upon dismounting, though.

A kiss. A very, very hot and heavy kiss. The kind you shared with a stripper after you gave her a particularly impressionable tip. Uros wasn't sure whether this disturbed him or turned him on. But he did his duty and returned the favor--tongue included without charge--even if he was a bit awkward about it.

He was almost glad when the other pulled away.

"Haaaa~ Look who's playing hero."

Uros cocked his head.

Like a stripper when you gave her a tip...

He picked his BFF up bridal-style, backing his way through the threshold and into his no-frills, borderline office-like home without a word. Placed him gently on a worn faux-leather couch. Stood before him, an unusually concerned ripple wrinkling his brow.

"Something. Is really. Fucking. Off. You need a pick me up, bre?" He pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm pretty sure we both don't want to be dragged down into a stinking bog of depression, so all I'm going to ask is that you tell me what is going on as soon as this is all over."

((DISTURBED UROS IS DISTURBED. A DISTINCTLY SLUTTY ZLATAN IS A BAD ZLATAN.))

Uros might as well have plunged a blade through his chest right then and there. He wasn't breathing. Which was just as well--he was in shock, laid on the couch and staring at the other as if the Serb had shot him. Between the Bulgarian and his own cousin, that was the gentlest gesture anyone had given him. The shock was just a natural reaction to not finding his nerves screaming in pain for once.

"Why did you do that?"

His arm snaked over the end of the couch to pat the floor below him.

"...Sit...sit..."

His eyes never left his BFF.

"Why did you do that?"

Zlatan's voice fell silent the second time, gaze swerving to stare at his open palm. No answers there. But he could feel his seams breathing--raspy. Expanding. Contracting. Stretching. Snapping. Unfurling.

And still he tore his lips into an easy smile.

"Uros. If I humiliated myself for you. Really. Fucking. Humiliated. Myself for you. How would you take that?"

Zlatan never really cared--or at least never paid much attention to--the glass that was his life. Whether it was half full, or half empty. It never bothered him, he still drank from it with a crazy straw. Except somewhere down the line the crazy straw had split, cracked. And now it really did not matter if it was half full or half empty. There was nothing there for him. He had lost control of his life, and he couldn't fix it.

Suck, slut, suck. There is no winning.

Why did he do...what again?

Uros simply tilted his head, a simple gesture of confusion and concern. He sat upon request, but otherwise made no movement, preferring to hear bits and pieces of what was slowly starting to become a whole picture...a picture that looked increasingly depressing.

"Uros. If I humiliated myself for you. Really. Fucking. Humiliated. Myself for you. How would you take that?"

God, he sounded pitiful. If he were anyone but his best friend, he would have just handed the guy a gun and told him to shoot himself and get it over with already. Maybe he'd even have done it for him. The Serb usually didn't have the patience for those too hung up with their faults to see their potential.

But this was different.

"Zlatko. I'd ask 'why'. 'Why, why would you do that if you know I already love you?'. I'd be both honored and shocked and sick with worry for you. And I'd be as confused as fuck, bre. Really fucking confused."

He loosened his ponytail out of habit, letting the hair fall around his shoulders. Fidgiting...that's how he knew he wasn't feeling right. Something was off.

"What did you do?"

"Zlatko. I'd ask 'why'. 'Why, why would you do that if you know I already love you?'. I'd be both honored and shocked and sick with worry for you. And I'd be as confused as fuck, bre. Really fucking confused."

He finally looked up from his palm, tucking his arm under his head as he rested on the couch. The words almost sounded foreign. Or at least as if they were spoken in a language he hadn't heard in a very, very long time. He futzed with his necklace, running the cross to and fro along its chain. "That's nice, Uros...that's really--" Zlatan's lips tugged into a small, grateful, genuine smile--which wilted and dropped once the Serb asked that.

The Dalmatian closed his eyes. Waited. Then spoke.

"I needed a hat--don't laugh--Djubre's went up in flames because of me, and you know how he fucking is. But those things cost you a fucking arm and a leg."

He paused. Shifted. And snapped his eyes to the man on the floor. Odd. He felt like he was telling someone else's story. Or maybe he just wished he was. He snorted at the thought. It was his life and he had to make peace with that.

"I needed money, and I wasn't going to ask you for it. I couldn't ask you for it."

Zlatan leant over the edge of the couch, placing a wobbly peck on the Serb's nose.

"I can't take from you to fix my messes."

The words fell and trailed off, he wasn't exactly sure where to go from there. What to say? What did he need to say? What didn't he need to say? A hand snuck to the rim of his jeans, tugging down the edge over the curve of one hip. A hip dotted with dark, fading splotches; some sharp, biting crescent moons, others ragged, dark stains. The sort of brush strokes one would expect to find on a used, discarded, and dead hooker.

"....That's a cigarette burn...and these are...well..."

He felt his body sink further into the couch. How did one get across just how desperate they were and to what lows they were willing to fall to, without painting a series of disgusting mental images? Or, God forbid, having to show that fucking tape again? He supposed The 'name' would carry enough of a reputation with it to stamp in just how depraved the entire fiasco was. He wouldn't have called the act sex. It was a ride on the breaking wheel.

"I let Kiril fuck me for the money. But that's not the best part--"

A smile--quivering, broken and bent out of shape--slipped over him.

"He taped it. And it's on the market."

"...for a hat?"

That was the closest Uros could get to stringing together a sentence. For all of the fluid that drained out of his face at the mere mention of Kiril's name, one would have thought Zlatan had just uttered some sort of curse. Suddenly, everything snapped into perspective.

Just how utterly lost the man before him was.

Uros held the other's face in his hands, thumb running over his eyes, his lips, his nose. Feeling like a blind man, seeing if the body confirmed the truth the lips were speaking. He could almost feel the cracks in the armor, the gaping holes where feeling and love should be. He looked into his eyes, unblinking. They didn't lie either.

For a hat.

No. Not for a hat.

"For your cousin. You'd let yourself be violated like that..." It wasn't the first time Zlatan had sold his body--or had it taken. Hell, it probably wasn't even the thousanth. He'd been at this a long, long time, but it was really on recently that someone figured out that they could make a profit from it..."Did he tell you to do it? No...no, something tells me you wouldn't be here if he asked you for it."

He ran his fingers through his hair.

"He didn't accept it. Figures, bre. He doesn't accept anything from people like us." Somewhere, behind his eyes, he was processing the whole story, detached--afraid. To go so far for no reward..."And now the tape is out there. Goddamn, Zlatko, you've really stepped in it, this time." He cracked a weak smile.

"How long do you need to stay? I'll house you as long as you need. Hell, I'll personally track down that tape--and any copies--if you want. Just say the word, it's done."

"You love me that much?"

For once Zlatan could honestly say he found an individual...extremely cute. Heartbreakingly cute. His hands blanketed Uroš's, holding them where they cradled him. And sighed.

"You know...for a big guy, you've got some fucking angelic hands on you."

He gingerly rolled off the couch, slinking over the side to scoot his hips into the Serb's lap. His hands left the other's, met the man's cheeks, his neck--thumb tracing over the collar of his shirt--and stopped. "I feel..."

Zlatan swallowed back the garbled thoughts within him, just as they attempted to birth words. His legs wound around the younger's waist, eyes darting wherever in careful thought. He mouthed them, over and over, looking for a start.

"I feel porcelain. Virgin. Like I'm worth something."

He burst into a wobbly snicker at having compared himself to a, well, unbroken hymen, but he didn't think he could form his thoughts, and his whacked out emotions, any better. That was how he felt. That was how Uroš made him feel.

His palm slid over Uroš's chest, not to feel him up--though he was casually impressed--but to grope at his heartbeat.

"...You love me that much?"

"...You love me that much?"

It was really quite heartbreaking, the way he said that. Uros gave the shyest smile that was possible for him, tilting his forehead against the Dalmatian's.

"Yes, I do. So stop worrying, alright? You're starting to worry me. What with saying you're a virgin and all. Strangest virgin I've ever met, bre."

He followed up with a rumbling laugh and gently, almost absentmindedly, kissed him. As much as he said he was straight--Zlatan tended to ruin that, and remind him that he wasn't. The good news was that being out of the closet was a tad easier now, with the world going to shit and then having his dad come barreling out of his wardrobe. What a way to start the summer that was.

"Jesus, do you usually doubt everyone this much? I'm almost insulted." And THAT was followed up with a playful smack to the ass.

"We're friends~. It's what we do."

Slowly, hesitantly, Zlatan slipped out a giggle. If his life were some Hollywood teen movie then this was the part when the more-to-him-then-meets-the-eye jock managed to colour the school's notorious maneater impressed and melt her heart...among certain articles of clothing. The shyness was adorable, and quite possibly the oddest turn on Zlatan found he had.

"You're cute."

He cut the Serb off with a kiss--soft, sincere, and entirely innocent for once--and then another. And another. And...

He heft his weight into Uroš, pushing him over and onto the floor; then sat back on his crotch. His fingers curled over the man's wrists, dragging his hands up and well over his head. "If I was a virgin all over again, " Zlatan arched over the other, courting a lighthearted smirk.

"you could pop my cherry~."

The Dalmatian wriggled his hips against the man, dipped down to place yet another trail of generous kisses along the smooth line of his jaw, and retreated once more. "You don't mind if I hijack your shower for a bit, do you?"

His eyes sketched over Uroš's humble den, settling on the open door of the bathroom. Having spent his morning as a greasemonkey in the garage the itch he now felt for a warm shower was starting to burn incessantly. Eyes back on the Serb. His hands released Uroš's, crawling their way down his chest before they came to a rest on the jutting curves of his hips. "Mmmm, you know what?" He leant down to nestle his face in the younger man's neck. "I think..."

Finger over his lips.

"...you should...."

His chin.

"...come along."

And with that, Zlatan pulled himself from his BFF's warmth, shimmying down to the bathroom. "Just saying." He shrugged, shedding the leather jacket from his person. The bathroom door fell to a close not long after.

A giggle-snort. "Cutie." He stripped off his wifebeater and jeans. His reflection only accentuated the paradox he lived; shedding such standard articles of raw masculinity...only to reveal the stark-black lace of panties and stockings below. He tossed aside the oil and grease stained garments, and hopped onto the bathroom counter, facing the door. You don't buy black lingerie unless you want someone to see it.

(Something about those Dalmatians that makes all the Serbs toss aside their heterosexuality.))

((Well, Uros is already confirmed bisexual, ZLATAN JUST PULLS HIM OUT OF THE CLOSET HAAAA---Dragan is essentially single target sexuality--for Martin))

Wow.

Wow.

Aside from being left with a red face and a raging crotch, Uros was pretty much in shock over just how wild that mustang was. Nevermind that it shouldn't have been anywhere near a surprise, he still wasn't expecting to get laid when he'd just apparently rescued his BFF from a pretty bad situation.

Still, that was one reward he wasn't exactly turning away anytime soon.

Stumbling to his feet in an uncommon display of uncoordinated awkwardness, the Serb followed--almost timidly--the nymph to the spring--his bathroom. His fist hovered over the door as if to knock--but dammit, the guy had just given him a lapdance. Privacy wasn't exactly a priority. Perhaps this was just a bit more difficult because he wasn't high. He fished a squashed joint out of his jacket's pocket, lit it, took a drag, and shoved open the door.

He was greeted with a very, very welcome sight.

"Oooh, I see you came prepared, breeee~. You are just---haaaaaaaa~." His lack of words was followed up with a small stream of perfumey smoke, blown close to the other's neck. An invading finger traced the inside rim of the underwear, the rest of the fingers following just briefly to smooth over his ass.

"Come on. We were getting you clean, right?"

He turned on the shower, not even waiting for it to warm up--not like it would (apparently, being the dictator's son did nothing for the quality of the plumbing, for not even authoritarianism could fix tempermental architecture)--before he stepped in, fully clothed, and let his hair entirely out of its already loose bindings.

"You aren't the only one who can be a tease, Zlatko~."

The benefits of wearing predominantly white--every day had the possibility to be wet t-shirt day. And since his ensemble this afternoon was solely white, it only added to the atmosphere. Like some pornographic photoshoot, he slowly removed his jacket, then his shirt, then his belt, then his pants, then his underwear in a painfully slothful fashion, all until he was down to nothing but what nature had birthed him in. A slight wink of the eye, and he was indeed ready.

((The fact that I just saw a bird mating dance video does not help. At all. Puff up your chest feathers and impress him with your dancing, Uros. Surely then Zlatan will get in the shower nest. See Uros!bird. See Uros!bird dance to impress his Zlatan!bird mate.

Spoiler:

Watch as the virile Uros!bird male puffs up his feather to display his gorgeous plummage. He has answered the mating call of the Zlatan!bird, but time will only tell if the teasing Zlatan!bird will indeed nest with him.))


If only this were the animal channel. The younger's striptease colored Zlatan amused, teeth pricking his bottom lip. He leant back, one leg finding its spot slipped over the other, face split with a grin. His appreciative eyes met curves, edges, and drops of taut flesh. Not bad. A pleased noise--a wistful moan--escaped him.

"Do a turn~."

When he was on the job, the fucking was good, but he wasn't there. When he was high, the sex was great, but he was only half there. Zlatan hadn't lived in his own body, his own skin, in a very, very long time. Not that that stopped him from being a Sex Symbol. He enjoyed the title. He just didn't always enjoy himself.

The Dalmatian pressed against his reflection, slicking his tongue over the smooth figure in the mirror, eyes ever held on the Serb. This was different. And he liked that.

"I am justttt--? You didn't finish."

He rolled off the counter, one leg following the other as if he were just about ready to begin a burlesque chair dance routine (which, given that he'd be spending a long time in Uros' den and depending on his own mood, was bound to be a card he'd play for his BFF at some point or another; lucky boy~).

Zlatan sauntered over with pendulum hips, set one foot on the rim, but made no move to join the younger man.

"....could you help me with these?" He slid a nail over the lingerie, then shifted his arm to balance the Serb's chin on two fingers; his other wove through the now cold, and water-tangled tendrils of Uros' hair.

"Bonus points for using your teeth~."

((....add that to the pile of song tracks people have tossed at me for this thread. Twin,wehaveanaudiance.))

((The most transparent closet EVER. EVER. I dare Zlatan to say he's straight after this. I really do./killed))

((He's EX-YUGOSLAV CAPITAL sexual. Call it a 'double closet outing'. Djuroshouldtotesmakeitatriad./shot))