Ivan Press

[Cordelia] Cordelia Sarafin-Diego sleeps like a log. Or a dead thing. Though, most accurately, today she slept like a dead log. She didn't really move. So, really, moving her was easy. Ivan could have stuck her on the roof and she wouldn't have woken up, or even rolled off the building. It is fortunate, she almost makes this easy.

The biggest problem in moving Cordelia might have come in the fact that she is nearly six feet tall. She is one inch shy of six feet tall, as a matter of fact, so unless he was particularly skilled at moving dead logs, there was a real chance that he could have banged her [hurr hurr] into something. Of course, that didn't happen. In fact, there was no banging at all that occurred the previous How unfortunate.

All good things require work.

With her glasses off, she was actually approaching pretty. One has to wonder why she takes such painstaking efforts to be plain. Or maybe she just didn't care, and that was, in fact, her greatest asset. Whatever it was, though, it didn't matter. Right now, she was sleeping, face down, in Ivan's bed. What she wakes up to is the sun.

A lot of sun.

She makes a tiny, displeased sound. IT starts out like a high pitched whine- the sound your breaks make when they're about to go out. She rolls over and shoves a pillow over her head. Time passes on. This doesn't work. She rolls over onto her back, and the sun is still there. It's raining in, shining all bright and chipper and likable. It's a lovely day outside, or else it has the potential to be. The view is fabulous- it's worth more than the price tag on this place. The best things in life are free, so it stands to reason that expensive things bring nothing but woe. So a beautiful, expensive apartment plus a five-hundred dollar bottle of Russian vodka brings possibly the worst headache known to humanity. And the sun, unaware of the fact that it is exacerbating a five-hundred-dollar hangover, continues to shine.

The sound that Cordelia makes next is a distinct, displeased groan.

She opens one blue eye, and can't see a damned thing without her glasses on. All she sees is sunshine. She keeps her eyes closed, for fear that opening them might make her head explode. The kinswoman rolls over on her right side, towards the middle of the bed.

"El sol tiene que morir," she half-grumbles, half orders.

[Cordelia] (the previous night. How... proofreading is your friend, Mindy)

[Ivan Press] If Ivan's penthouse was breathtaking by night, all halogen lights warm on golden woods and stone floors and brushed steel and glass, glass, glass --

if it was breathtaking by night, then by day it's a fucking miracle. Sunlight bathes in through the vast, edgeless glass that make up nearly every outer wall. There are shades cleverly disguised along the top of each pane of glass, but they're all rolled up right now and the morning -- which is in reality more like a noontide -- washes in unimpeded.

She's in a room that's easily the size of an average family's living room, though this appears to be a bedroom. The bed is set back far enough from the glass as to not be overheated as the sun rises higher. It is vast, and it is utterly luxurious, the mattress and boxspring a meter thick, the bedding -- surprisingly enough -- not decadent satin silk but some smooth, cool cotton with a five-digit thread count.

An ultra-thin ultra-high-def TV hangs on one wall, so fucking elite that it eschews the need for much of a house, or even a brand name. It's simply a matte black rectangle hanging on the wall, framed by the thinnest band of textured black steel. There's a fireplace beneath it. Tucked away in the corners of the room, small and lowkey, as small tweeter speakers that would undoubtedly produce some obscenely full sound when turned on. There's an integrated control center on one nightstand, and ...

... and a man's watch beside it.

Wait a minute.

The comforters are snowy white, light for summer. But the sheets beneath are deep, dark, a slate-blue close enough to charcoal grey not to even matter. Unmistakeably masculine. What's more, there's a scent in the pillow next to hers, spicy, clean, that's decidedly not whatever face lotion or shampoo she might use in lieu of an actual perfume.

And there's the sound of running water from close by. Someone's taking a shower.

Annnnd she's not in what she was wearing last night. She's in a silk nightgown she does not recognize, and it's certainly not the sort of shapeless draped sack one might easiest imagine Cordelia in, either. It is, in fact, next door to a negligee.

The water shuts off. This place is far, far too expensive for pipes to thunk in the walls, so there's simply a sudden silence. Then a quiet click as a glass shower door opens; then footsteps; and then Ivan coming around the corner from the en suite bathroom, dripping on the rich carpet, a lush white towel around his waist.

"Morning, beautiful," he says, and gives her his very best morning-after smile. There isn't a hitch; he comes around her side of the bed and, provided she hasn't shrieked and run out the room, attempts to stroke back her hair and smooch her on the forehead, all laziness and remembered warmth.

[Cordelia] She rolls over and reaches for the nightstand. Cordelia pats around, as she does every morning, for those completely god awful glasses of hers. She taps once... twice... without opening her eyes and finds a man's watch. She holds onto it for a second, and her eyes open slowly. Her eyebrows squish together and she takes the watch in her hand. Cordelia lifts it close to her face so that she can see what it is. It's not just a watch, it's a nice watch.

Cordelia does not own a watch.

There's a big black oval (she squints and looks at it closer. No, that's a rectangle) on the wall. Below it is another shape, which she assumes is a fireplace. She looks down, and her vision is good enough at close range that she can tell that she isn't just wearing a nightgown. She's wearing a nice nightgown. She's wearing a nice nightgown and she doesn't quite remember putting it on. This, of course, makes her lips press into a sharp, fine line.

The background noise of the shower shuts off, she inhales sharply.

This is the universal sound of Oh shit. It transcends all languages.

However, much like Velma from Scooby Doo, Cordelia was useless without her glasses. And she wasn't going to be able to get out of here and find her things if she didn't have them. She looks at the watch again and manages to catch the time. She lays back down and puts the watch on the nightstand. It makes a resounding click.

At about that time there is a mostly naked ragabash walking in the door. Without a hitch, without any sort of indication that this wasn't completely normal, he smooths her hair back- which has a nice enough texture, and kisses her forehead. This is a nice sensation, and instinctively she does lean into it. Which is stopped abruptly when the hard realization hits her that she is awake. Instead of flushing, she pales. He says Morning, beautiful, and he might as well have said I ate your puppy by the way she was looking at him.

It was equal parts horror and confusion.

"Oh fuck," she says.

At least she knows the important words in English.

[Ivan Press] Ivan's face and form are mostly blurs to Cordelia right now, though he's close enough for her to pick up the look of patient amusement that crosses his face. "Well," he says, "yes, but I was so hoping you'd refer to our beautiful night together as 'making love'."

He sits. On her side of the bed, one might add. Ivan is not short; he's a very respectable six foot nothing. But the bed is high enough and wide enough that even gawky Cordelia looks dwarfed in it. Sitting on the edge, Ivan's knees do not make right angles. He bends his head, though, and scuffs his short blond hair -- dark with moisture -- into short spikes and horns. Then he turns and smiles at her.

"If you're looking for your glasses," he nods at the other nightstand, "they're over there. But you should really think about contact lenses."

[Cordelia] "Umm.. .perdon... eh.... Utilizó un condón, si?"

She looks at him, and gives him the sweetest, possibly most disarming of looks he has ever seen. It's so painfully endearing, so delightfully hopeful that it would be absolutely awful to tell the poor darling no. She blinks once, twice, and then rolls over to the other side of the bed.

She rolls twice, three times, and reaches for her glasses. The woman pushes them onto her face, and the world comes into focus again. Cordelia pushes herself off the bed and, soon enough, there's a large mattress between them.

She catches the words contact lenses. She blinks, and her eyes look a little larger behind those frames.

"Por que? No me gusta contact lenses. I like my glasses."

[Ivan Press] Cordelia literally rolls herself off the bed -- the far side of the bed -- and puts her glasses back on like a shield. All of a sudden, skimpy elegant nightgown or no, she's back to looking like a dork. Ivan is utterly unfazed. Not by her rapid departure from bed; not by her dorkification.

The Ragabash lays himself out crosswise along the bed, lean body tensing through a long stretch that threatens to strain the loose tuck of his towel asunder. With her glasses on now, Cordelia can see Ivan is built lean and long, shoulders surprisingly broad, body toned but lacking the sort of hard, chiseled chest and ridged abdomen of his more warlike brethren.

"Ah," he says, stretch complete. And then he tilts his head back, looking at her upside-down. Amazing how two people who barely speak one another's languages are managing to communicate so well; but then, perdon and condón are rather homophonic in all languages.

For a second or two, it's almost an irresistible temptation to give her a wide-eyed look of innocence and shake his head no. In the end, Ivan's inherent gallantry -- what there is of it -- wins out.

"Of course," he assures her. "I'm discreet and a gentleman. Besides, Erika insisted, even if you were too far gone, you saucy little minx."

Erika?

[Ivan Press] [oh yes, you heard me right. that's exactly what happened. manip: persuasive.]
Dice Rolled:[ 8 d10 ] 1, 1, 1, 3, 6, 8, 8, 8, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6) Re-rolls: 1

[Cordelia] [Is that really what happened? Per+empathy]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 2, 2, 3, 5, 6, 8 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Cordelia] [Manip+subterfuge+PB: That is totally what happened!]
Dice Rolled:[ 8 d10 ] 1, 3, 6, 8, 8, 8, 9, 10 (Success x 5 at target 6)

[Cordelia] Oh, and she's buying all. Of. It.

She's hanging on every word he's saying, and believes, whole heartedly it seems, that they did have sex. She looks at him, and that comfortable morning after smile comes to her face. Using her context clues, she can figure out about what he said. Last night, apparently, ended in a racy threesome involving two very well bred women and one lucky Ivan.

Possibly a foursome. You never know, Matthieu might have been perfectly fine with that.

She watches him lay down on his side of the bed, and the female walks around it, slowly, intentionally. Her hand stays on the bed and she walks around. The smile on her face is mischievous, but... it's a different kind of mischief. It's the kind of mischief dorky girls tend to have instead of seduction. And, with that, she climbs back on the bed and positions herself, rather carefully might we add, on top of him. She is very... very tall, we've established this. So, putting her legs on either side of his hips and hovering just barely above that towel is completely possible.

She's a dancer- muscular control is something she is well aware and capable of. She looks down, and traces a little, circular pattern on his chest.

Cordelia's blushing now.

"Erika.... you," she ssays, and punctuates it by stopping her hand and laying it flat on his chest, "call Erika... Usted debe ver si ella quiere recrear la noche anterior. Yo había ido demasiado lejos ... y quiero ver si las cosas van mejor la segunda vez."

She then perks up and smiles. It's that dreamy, girlie smile that young women get... when...

"No puedo esperar para tu conocer a mi madre."

[Ivan Press] Oho. Now this got unexpectedly interesting. Truth be told Ivan was expecting Cordelia to bolt out of the room as soon as she found her glasses again -- out of the room, out of the penthouse, possibly out of the city to hide in a hole o' shame for the next month or two.

Instead, he gets a tall, leggy, startlingly graceful girl atop him with her hand on his chest. And a becoming little blush on her cheeks. Daw.

Ivan, never one to fail to answer when opportunity knocks, immediately leans up and plants one smack on her lips. And let us mention now: Ivan is an excellent, world-class kisser. Lots of practice, you see.

That lovestruck face, the ominous mi madre at the end of her fluttery little spanish -- he could deal with that later.

[Cordelia] Oh, that bastard.

He's either calling her bluff or she lied a little too well. Or worse, the idea of meeting mi madre doesn't scare him. Her luck was truly horrific.

It is now working against her best interesting to be adorable, and instead of looking horrified or concerned or what the hell did you just say, he doesn't. He kisses her. Again, the first statement applies: that bastard. That bastard, however, is a good kisser. A pretty damned good one, in fact, enough that she has to take cues. Cordelia can count the number of people she's kissed on both hands and that's it. She remembers their names, their phone numbers, and what city they're from. Not that she has a good memory, there's just too few to remember.

So, she plays the role of inexperienced beautifully, but she is also astute and takes good notes. She's a critical thinker, and one could argue that this situation required some critical thinking. She doesn't close her eyes when they kiss, at least not at first. It's up and over and looking for an exit. She is the one that initiates pull back. Eyebrows are raised and she looks at him expectantly.

Well?

[Ivan Press] The look on her face, so expectant, makes him laugh. "Did you want a letter grade?"

Then he reaches up and, with startling gentleness, strokes back her hair; draws off her big clunky glasses again. "Wait a minute," he says, one finger up in the semi-universal gesture of un momento.

Even positioned rather interestingly on his back under the Fang version of a semi-hot-exchange-student, Ivan is possessed of a remarkable dexterity of motion. He reaches out a long arm, snags open the drawer of his nightstand, and takes out his phone. It's not an iPhone. It's not a Droid Incredible. It's some disgustingly expensive piece of work, carbon-fiber-cased, sleek and black and featherlight with an enormous screen -- and a camera on the back.

Click! goes the phone. He turns it around and shows Cordelia her candid snapshot: glowing in the indirect sunlight, hair becomingly askew, glasses off, face too surprised or too unwary to show its usual terminally-confused expression.

"Now that," he says softly, "is una bella señorita." A second later the grin flashes again. "And also why you should switch to contacts."

[Erika Alexander] After a night of drink, Erika has quite an impressive hangover. She woke the first time at the crack of dawn with the rush of traffic... unfamiliar noises echoing through the glass tower. However, the bed quite literally sucks the life out of her for several more hours.

She doesn't hear the commotion of the others outside, but seeing as she is a Fang kin, she would prefer to have a shower before leaving the bedroom. Of course, having only her evening dress from the night before, she figured it would be appropriate to leave the room in whatever doubtless slinky robe Ivan would set for his guests.

He sleeps late anyway... she remembers.

Not quite having the motivation to get done up this early, she merely towels off her hair and meanders towards the kitchen area. Her unseemly appearance only feeds Ivan's little story. Erika seems, well, too hung over for much enthusiasm.

[Cordelia] "Como se dice "estudiante suficiente" en Ingles?" she replies.

Want and grade were all she really needed to get across here. The woman stayed on top of the ragabash, and she losses her glasses unexpectedly. Eyebrows shoot up, and the picture's taken quickly enough that she looks... endearingly surprised. She doesn't look confused at all, which seems to be her default in this country. The female leans forward a little to see the snapshot. Her close range vision is good enough that she can make out the details, the toussled hair, and the fact that she really does have some good things going for her.

She has to laugh, and she does. The woman shakes her head some, which tousles her hair a little more and she reaches forward to, well, retrieve her glasses.

"Toma usted un montón de fotos con mujeres extrañas sentado encima de ti?"

[Ivan Press] The bedroom Erika woke up in was not the master bedroom, where shenanigans and mutual hoodwinkings were currently underway. It was nonetheless spacious, and luxurious, and outfitted with its own large closets and private baths.

She'll find her own clothes from the night before -- whatever she took off before going facedown in bed, anyway -- have been taken, laundered or dry-laundered as appropriate, and hung neatly in one of the closets by Ivan's efficient and silent staff. In the other closet are a reasonable variety of nightgowns, dressing gowns, and other semi-intimates. Sizes range widely; six-foot supermodels and five-foot ex-figure skaters would all find something to fit here. All women's clothing, though, and all of it new.

There are fresh bathrobes hanging in the bathroom too. And toiletries, right down to plastic-wrapped toothbrushes and combs and q-tips. Like a luxury hotel, this. Ivan -- or rather, Ivan's staff -- is clearly accustomed to having female overnight guests in various rooms of the loft.

A touch of a button raises the shade over the glass wall. The lake sprawls at her feet, blue as a lagoon, dotted with white sails.

When Erika exits her room, she'll find the upstairs hallway quiet and empty. The door to the room next to hers -- the one where Dmitri had set unconscious-Cordelia the night before, and Yuliya had later gone to change the girl into something more sleep-worthy than whatever street clothes she had passed out in -- is now empty. The door is open. The bed is stripped; fresh linens set out at the foot, not yet changed on.

At the other, far, far end of the hall, a second interior balcony overlooks a second staircase -- a switchback, not a spiral -- past which Erika can see the north glass wall of the penthouse, as well as the western, sole nonglass wall, open to the first floor. That wall is covered in books, a literal library of them; shelf upon shelf, the higher ones accessible only by a sliding ladder affixed to a rail along the shelves' length.

Beside the switchback staircase to the first floor, the door to the master suite is closed. It's a good forty feet away, but the penthouse is so well soundproofed, and Ivan's staff so discreet, that Erika can faintly hear voices inside.

[*punts that out for erika first!* if you guys need the floorplan again: http://www.145hudson.com/penthouse/phFloorplan.pdf ]

[Ivan Press] Ivan's grin warms when Cordelia laughs, comfortable, genuine. He drops the cameraphone on the mattress and tucks his now-free hand behind his head, damp hair beginning to curl faintly as it dries. There are too many words there, and too many of them in Spanish, that he can't guess at her meaning. Something about photos. Perhaps she's worried he'll post them up on Facebook; but then, if she were, she wouldn't be laughing.

Or still sitting on top of him.

She reaches for her glasses, then, and Ivan deftly whisks them out of her grasp, outstretching his arm over his head and off the edge of the bed. "Nuh-uh," he says, and then taps his lips with two fingers. "You want to look like a nerd again, you'll have to kiss me first."

[Cordelia] "ZYo no soy un nerd-" she hangs on to the R, and does her best immitation of an american accent. She sounds like she's from Texas, "soy un geek. Different."

She puts one finger up when she says different, and the other, and holds then together, side by side in front of her. Then, she moves them apart, shoulder length apart, and sets her hands down on her hips. She looks at him, and it's half esasperation. She doesn't look like she's going to be kissing him any time soon, though eventually, she does lean down, enough that her chest is pressed against his, her nose is touching his, and half a grin is painting her features. The left side of her mouth turned upward.

She reaches for her glasses. They're almost the same height, she can almost reach if she's careful.

She might kiss him... maybe...

"Gimme!" she half whispers. Guess she's not negotiating.

[Erika Alexander] Well, then... Erika couldn't help admire the glass palace Ivan treated like an accessory. Erika actually sighs in a semi-nostalgic moment that makes her just as suddenly feel faint and slightly nauseated at her self.

Having set her fingers over the things in the closet, she decides to take a better look at it later. She continues in a half-trance through the halls of glass, granite, steel. Things of hardwood and leather... Oh, yes. How very much like the decadent display her Grandfather called a 'farm'. in this light, and in such a state of mind, Erika bears a striking resemblence to dead princes and the exiled elite, shoved into the four corners of the world during the rise of Communism.

The library does strike her fancy, as it would, but more than that is the absense of one young Cordelia. Erika can't hear very well regardless. However, in her trancelike state, a general positive mood despite being hungover and quite possibly a bit drunk still, Erika's attention is drawn to the muffled sounds of something.

Oh, how a goldfish must feel, she thinks to herself, her feet carrying her futher than her curiocity.

The kinfolk isn't terrifically graceful, but she generally likes the feel of the cold floor against her bare feet... and shuffles quietly upstairs to snoop or just get a better look at the place.

[Ivan Press] So Ivan kisses Cordelia again.

This time it's deeper. Longer and slower, his hand coming up to cup the back of her neck and push into her hair. There's something more to it; beyond playfulness, pushing the boundary into genuine desire. His lean body flexes up beneath hers to follow the kiss through to its completion, and when it's done his eyes are a little darker when he lies back, pupils wider even in the noonday light.

A beat to catch his breath, or perhaps simply for effect. Then the irrepressible grin returns.

"Oh, you meant the glasses," he says, a perfect charade of innocence as he passes said eyewear back to her.

While she gets them on, his hands drop comfortably to her waist. The silk is thin. His hands are warm. He watches her transform back into a geek, which is different from a nerd, like Superman becoming Clark Kent.

"I have a confession," he says, and this is as comfortable and lazy as his grin was. "We did not, in fact, make passionate love last night. I didn't even see you naked. You slept down the hall, and Yuliya helped you with your clothes. I'm pretty sure she was very clinical about it all and that you went quite unmolested. In fact," his thumbs glide quite pointedly over the elastic of her panties, "I think you still have all your underclothes on. I just moved you here to prank you.

"So," and this is where his smile begins to curl again, "here's your chance to scamper out of bed and protect your modesty. Because," and he angles his head up and back, glancing at his door, "I'm quite certain I hear my other houseguest up and about."

[Cordelia] When he kisses her, when it becomes deeper, and his hand is in her hair. It isn't important because this time, she closed her eyes instinctively. She presses into his, maximizes space, and is there/i> for the kiss. Start to finish- she sees things through. When she pulls back, she inspects him, looks at his face and looks at his eyes and she doesn't look confused.

It takes a second before he grins and she rolls her eyes. She shakes her head and lets a grin color her own features. She sits up. The glasses go back on. She's Clark Kent again.

He makes his confession.

Cordelia speaks five languages. She is in her early twenties and speaks five languages. Not to the tune of where is the bathroom and could you please speak slower, either. She speaks five languages with a degree of ease that some native speakers don't even have. This could be largely due to the fact that she is a fairly intelligent person, or possibly because she has proven herself to be a good enough liar that she fakes things well enough to make this work.

But the fact of the matter is this: she has five different languages to piece words from when trying to figure out the English Language puzzle. A bit from German, the occasional French, Spanish, and something that sounds kind of like Czech sometimes creeps into English ever so often. She gets by because she's studied so many other things.

it's no substitute for the real thing, though. It is enough, however, that she can catch most of the gist of it. Did not make passionate love. Something something about Yuliya and going to the clinic and keeping her panties on. His hand rests on her waist. The silk is thin. She's not in terrible shape. In fact, she's in pretty damned good shape.

And it's her turn to wear a cheeky, shit eating grin.

"I know," she says. And there is a bit of hesitation there, and she drops her hand to his and moves it off of her waist, "que sería divertido, pero que no cojo en la primera cita."

She lingers there for a minute, and seems to really be thinking about whether or not she really wants to get up. Eventually, she does sling her leg over to one side and gets off of him.

[Cordelia] (close that tag!)

[Cordelia] When he kisses her, when it becomes deeper, and his hand is in her hair. It isn't important because this time, she closed her eyes instinctively. She presses into his, maximizes space, and is there for the kiss. Start to finish- she sees things through. When she pulls back, she inspects him, looks at his face and looks at his eyes and she doesn't look confused.

It takes a second before he grins and she rolls her eyes. She shakes her head and lets a grin color her own features. She sits up. The glasses go back on. She's Clark Kent again.

He makes his confession.

Cordelia speaks five languages. She is in her early twenties and speaks five languages. Not to the tune of where is the bathroom and could you please speak slower, either. She speaks five languages with a degree of ease that some native speakers don't even have. This could be largely due to the fact that she is a fairly intelligent person, or possibly because she has proven herself to be a good enough liar that she fakes things well enough to make this work.

But the fact of the matter is this: she has five different languages to piece words from when trying to figure out the English Language puzzle. A bit from German, the occasional French, Spanish, and something that sounds kind of like Czech sometimes creeps into English ever so often. She gets by because she's studied so many other things.

it's no substitute for the real thing, though. It is enough, however, that she can catch most of the gist of it. Did not make passionate love. Something something about Yuliya and going to the clinic and keeping her panties on. His hand rests on her waist. The silk is thin. She's not in terrible shape. In fact, she's in pretty damned good shape.

And it's her turn to wear a cheeky, shit eating grin.

"I know," she says. And there is a bit of hesitation there, and she drops her hand to his and moves it off of her waist, "que sería divertido, pero que no cojo en la primera cita."

She lingers there for a minute, and seems to really be thinking about whether or not she really wants to get up. Eventually, she does sling her leg over to one side and gets off of him.

[Erika Alexander] When the kin does round the corner, there is no fuel to feed a jealous fire, not at all. In fact, there is genuine amusement... mostly though, Erika still seems to still be almost half-asleep. Though not bleary-eyed, the kinfolk yawns and rolls her eyes at the display.

"Did you tell her about the orgy we didn't have?" She greets with playful banter. Oh, she might know his type after all.

"Buenas dias, Cordelia," she tries to make a gesture of goodwill by piecing together the bits of Spanish she knew. The kin lets her eyes wander over the contents of the room, seeming more aloof than ever. A hand tucks a damp lock of hair behind her ear. Something flickers across her mind, and she cracks a grin but says nothing.

Ivan and his palace of toys, she thinks to herself.

"Should I leave?"

[Ivan Press] There was hesitation there. And mutual consideration. And when Cordelia's hand moves Ivan's, his wraps around hers for a moment, holds a touch longer than necessary.

Then she's getting off him, and the spark in his eyes shifts into humor. He swats her bottom lightly as she climbs off, raising himself on his elbows.

That's when the bedroom door opens. The doors to the master suite are, like the others in this minimalistic palace of light and luxury, frosted and frameless glass. They swing open easily, silently. Ivan never bothered to lock them, and probably wouldn't even if he were expecting to actually bed Cordelia.

So he's not particularly alarmed, nor even remotely ashamed, when Erika invites herself so coolly into the room. Which is, as far as rooms go, a superlative of superlatives; everything one would expect for the private domain of such an obviously privileged, materialistic, playboy princeling as this. Vast flatpanel T.V. Walk-in closets. The view, of course; and they can't even see his ridiculous bathroom from their angle.

Cordelia is getting off the bed. She's wearing one of those expensive silk nighties that look rather similar to the ones hanging new and waiting in Erika's guest room. She's a dancer, it turns out, and she moves like one. She has the body of one. She's hot, until you got to those absurd glasses she wears on her face like a mask.

Ivan, meanwhile, is sprawled on his elbows, crosswise on the bed, twisting to smile over his shoulder at Erika. He's freshly showered and shaven, boyish in the morning light which is really the noontime light, hair still wet and curling from it. "No," he says, warm and confident. "Stay."

He gets up himself, the towel around his waist coming loose in the activity, which is fine with him. He tosses it over his shoulder instead, unashamed as adam in the garden of eden. The grin he flashes the women is equal parts cheeky and cocksure as he heads for his closet.

"Let's go sailing," he adds.

[Cordelia] "Buenas dias Erika, que tal?" she says. There's a swat n the bum, which illicits a bit of a sound, an aeii! to be exact, but it's not overly zealous. Just... well.. surprised. The kind fo thing that you do when you step on an ice cube.

And Ivan, the one who she was locking eyes with, whose hand lingered in hers for a moment, who she genuinely considered for a second, is asserting that they should all go sailing. She shakes her head some, and climbs off of it. She straighens out that nightgown of hers with hair delightfully toussled and looking her usual... plain self. Someone knew better. There was photographic evidence.

"Lo siento, tengo que ir a casa. Si puedo obtener más sol, voy a vomitar. Es verdad. No es bueno."

She says it all so matter of factly, too. Like, if she really does get any more sun, she will blow chunks of her lunch and expensive vodka all over the boat. Or rather, all over the side of the boat.

"El enfermo del movimiento no es bueno."

[Erika Alexander] The kin doesn't stare. She takes a seat on the corner of his bed while he decidedly goes commando. She seconds the other kin's reaction, widening her eyes. Erika smirks, then stretches herself across the bed a bit.

Stay... a suggestion or an order? The kin arches a quizzical brow and takes a deep breath.

"I would love to, Ivan. But I don't think either of us have quite stopped swimming from last night." The older kin makes the polite excuse for the both of them.

[Ivan Press] Inside the walk-in now, he laughs as the kinswomen beg off. "Lightweights," he says. "You couldn't have had more than two drinks apiece."

He steps into underwear; muffles briefly as he pulls a shirt on his head. Wooden hangars clack decisively. Then a whoosh-snap as he shakes out a fresh pair of jeans. When Ivan steps out buttoning his fly, he's surprisingly low-key in denims (tailored) and a t-shirt (v-neck; double-layered at collar and sleeves). He pulls a jacket off the end of the rack and begins to shrug it on. It's soft-shelled, zippered, light; a plain thing that would look utilitarian on any other man.

On Ivan, it looks sharp. Dark grey, it somehow gives the illusion of a suit jacket without being one. Low-key is relative.

"Well," he says, "I'm going sailing. You're welcome to stay here as long as you like. Dmitri will see to your every need, etcetera etcetera, and call you a car when you're ready to head home ... " he zips the jacket up to mid-chest in a single pull, " ... but you should really come along."

[Cordelia] "Yo soy un geek y una wuss. No lo siento."

A beat passes, and she considers. And she wonders, briefly, about what they might do. She thinks about how long it's been since she's been on a boat and, finally-

"Donde esta mi camiseta?"

[Erika Alexander] Cordelia and Erika seem to have similar reactions and protestations. The senior kinswoman protests with a quiet voice, almost pleading.

"I'll have you know I had a couple before you wrapped your car around that pole," she says while he moves off to dress himself sharply, but appropriately.

Erika considers, but would much prefer some juice or something to cut her headache down. The hangover is perhaps the source of her calm, quiet self today. And certainly, both kinswomen are lithe of build and either possess fast metabolisms or eat like birds.

With a sidelong glance and an upturned brow, Erika seems to approve of his clothing choice, giving a slight smile. Cordelia is looking for something, however... and it draws her attention.

Camiseta.... camisole... not far off. She wondered the same when she first woke.

"Probably in the guest bedroom. There are... other clothes, too." She tries to keep her explanation plain enough.

[Ivan Press] Ivan is quizzical for a moment. Cordelia sketches a shirt in the air. Erika grasps it first, and then Ivan. He laughs, face clearing of confusion, and pulls open his bedroom door.

"In your guest room," he affirms, leading her -- and Erika, if she comes along -- down that hall so long and light-filled the building brochure calls it a goddamn gallery. "I think Yuliya had your things laundered this morning. Nothing worse than going home in last night's clothes."

Erika mentions other clothes. Ivan laughs again, a short burst of mirth. "Those are for lounging about half-naked and looking hot," he says, carelessly honest about such things. "You'd be arrested if you went out on the street in them."

He glances over his shoulder at Erika though, eyes sweeping her in a single arc. She arrived in evening wear, he remembers. "Do you need something else to wear? I could send Dmitri to pick something up for you."

[Erika Alexander] The Rus-American indeed goes along, chewing on her bottom lip. As she's becoming more awake and alert, the light doesn't bother her quite so much.

Sentiments about wearing the previous nights' clothing are definitely echoed among the kin. And certainly, the contents of her guest closet seem not her taste, as far as anyone else is concerned.

"That," a pause. "Would be convenient."

Honestly, the therapist's own office is within the district, and even her own loft isn't too far. But, this is of course a Fang kin born and raised. And far be it from her to deny another's hospitality. Ivan seems like less of a jackass not having to snipe back and forth at Matthieu, so without the broodiness and potential outburst lingering on the air, Erika is much more at ease. And it shows.

[Cordelia] She saunters along and off to the guest room. She occasionally casts a baleful look at the sunny windows, with their chipper lights streaming through the copious windows. She follows along, and takes her glasses off briefly enough that she can clean them on the edge of a silk nightgown. Cordelia inspects it, the texture, and smiles a little, just enough that her lips upturn.

She rather liked this one, she'd try and acquire one of these later.

The young woman heads on her way to the other room, and once she was off in her little corner of the world, she found her clothes. The godawful skirt she'd been wearing. The shirt that she wore over there. Hell, she even found her shoes. Tennis shoes were being pulled on. She inspected them before pulling them on. Socks were abandoned and shoved in her purse.

Cordelia frowned at this, and dug through her purse. She looked left, then right, then sprayed it in her purse on the socks. Just to be sure.

[Ivan Press] [i took the liberty of fast fwding!]

"I'll let him know," Ivan says. "We might as well have a late breakfast before we head out, too. It's not worth getting you both seasick if you're not going to throw up over the sides."

He doesn't even bother to deadpan that one.


So: Dmitri is summoned and sent out on what is, sadly, one of his less absurd errands to date. Breakfast is not at the formal dining table but in the kitchen itself, where they meet Evgeny the cook and pourer of vodkas for the first time: a burly fellow with tattooed arms that speak of at least one turn in the Russian prison system. No indication how such a colorful character came to be an Americanized Fang's cook, of all things. He does, however, in fact make a mean eggs'n'scallops scramble, which Ivan eats enthusiastically with toast and milk and orange juice. There are lighter foods for the women if they insist, though Ivan himself insists that everyone at least try some.

Really. It's amazing.

Conversation is light. Ivan tells them the glass walls of this place are supposedly built to withstand hurricanes and earthquakes, though fortunately Chicago has neither. He confesses that sometimes it's like living in an aquarium, which is why he has another home outside town. He tries to ask about Cordelia's hometown, but soon gives up. It's not just lost in translation; it's simply lost.


Dmitri is back from the shops when breakfast is getting cleared away. Ivan shows Cordelia around the terrace while Erika is putting on what turns out to be wares from some exclusive designer or other that'd pass any Manhattanite's judgmental eye. Neither should be a surprise. Any butler who dresses himself entirely in sharp black has to have an eye for fashion.

Then they're ready to go, and Ivan's ushering everyone into the elevator. Their ears pop on the way down. It's that high up. In the garage again, Ivan sadly bypasses both Lamborghini and Bugatti -- two seaters; he jokes that he should've gotten a McLaren F1 with its man-and-two-mistresses seating arrangement -- and puts himself behind the wheel of Lane's borrowed Bentley again.

So that's how the three of them make the trip out to the shoreline and the boating docks, all of two minutes away: the same way they arrived last night.