Ivan Press

[Ivan Press] So there was a Silver Fang gathering tonight, to which Cordelia was cordially invited. However, the rather gawky kin didn't show up. For all anyone knew, it was because she was studying. Or reading about quantum supercomputing. Or... whatever geeky gawky Fang girls do on a Saturday night.

A little before midnight, though, an atrociously overpriced piece of machinery rolls up under Cordelia's window at the Brotherhood. And the driver -- lean, rakish, with dappled blondish hair and a killer grin -- leans on the horn until she shows at the window.

"Let's go have some fun, princess!" he calls up at her.

[Cordelia Sarafin-Diego] What do geeky, gawky Fang girls do on Saturday nights?



You don't want to know.

However! What she was doing, and what it had to do with sequins and a rhododendron are completely unimportant. What is important, is that what she was doing was interrupted by a horn. She leans out the window, and her hair is straight.

"Yo no soy una princessa, soy una queen of everything. Es different!" she calls out the window. She has a tee shirt on. The shirt's atrocious. One can guess whether or not she's wearing pants, but as that it's Cordelia, it's a fifty-fifty shot that she is mostly clothed in something atrocious, "un momento!"

And the window shuts.

And it takes about ten minutes for her to actually get downstairs and out the door. She's in a state of utter disarray. She's got a skirt on, her shirt is half tucked in and the waistband comes up to her boobs. She has flats in one hand, a purse in the other, and she seems to be fighting a loosing battle with getting-to-the-car and getting dressed.

[Cordelia Sarafin-Diego] (shut that tag!)

[Ivan Press] The car tonight is not the Lamborghini, and it's certainly not his lawyer's Bentley. Or his staff's two Escalades. It is, ladies and gentleman, the Bugatti Veyron: the fastest street-legal car in the world, and the most expensive.

The engine rumbles, echoing off the narrow walls of the alley. Ivan looks at Cordelia with mingled humor and aghastness as she struggles into the car. Then he reaches behind the seats -- there's no backseat, only a tiny bit of space between the deep-scooped racing seats and the wall to the engine compartment -- and lifts out a stiff little off-white paper bag with cloth handles.

"No way. You're not wearing that to V.I.P. If you wear that, people will think you're doing the Nerdy Little Girl act and holler at you and make you get on stage. Put this on. I won't look."

And he puts a hand up near his eyes, averting his gaze politely. In the bag: a nice little gucci skirt-and-top outfit, surprisingly modest, somewhere between flirty and girly and edgy. Up to her if she puts it on, though.

[Cordelia Sarafin-Diego] "Where's V.I.P?" she asks as she takes the bag. And, in that bag, there is-

Ooh. Her eyebrows raise and she drops her flats. The purse gets tucked nicely into the floorboard, and clothing? Well, what she's wearing gets none-too-politely discarded. His statement that he wouldn't look is dismissed with a wave of her left hand and a sound that couldn't sound more indifferent. Meh. Yes, that was the correct word she was looking for. It's the same in practically every language.

There's little wrestling involved with getting dressed, and she does a quick check in the mirror. She had legs that went on forever. That outfit made absolutely certain that she... well... made use of that asset.

"Nice car," she says, between pulling the shirt on and checking out her rear. It was surprisingly modest, though. overall, she seems pleased.

[Ivan Press] "River North," Ivan replies, "just a little bit inland from here. God, you have nice legs." No, he didn't really not-look either. He doesn't even peek. He just looks, as soon as her top is off. "It's a strip club, by the way."

Then she's all changed, and he's saying "Buckle up," about a second before he hits the accelerator. That blast of throttle wakes everyone in the Brotherhood; or it would have if the leaning-on-the-horn hadn't already done that. When he hits the street he tears out in a tight right turn, then hauls the beast of a Bugatti on center and points it westward.

"So," he says, all conversational, "who exactly are you? I mean, I don't want the whole 19 minute ancestry spiel, but -- you're geeky and yet you're bold and you speak Castilian Spanish and you stare at hot chicks almost as much as I do." He flicks her a grin, white, dimpling, "Who are you?"

[Cordelia Sarafin-Diego] [FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, DON'T SAY IT. WP]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 2, 3, 3, 5, 9, 10 (Success x 2 at target 9)

[Cordelia Sarafin-Diego] Who are you?
"I'm Batman."

Dead serious.

[Ivan Press] Ivan bursts into laughter. "Well, fine, but I'm Bruce Wayne. You have fun jumping off skyscrapers. I'll bang the supermodels."

Which... if you think about it, is a rather apt metaphor.

There's a red light coming up, at any rate, and Ivan doesn't seem like he's about to stop. It's midnight. The streets are quiet. One car passes by the intersection about a split-second ahead of them and Ivan blasts the horn, flashes his high beams, doesn't let off the gas. Cordelia gets one glimpse of a startled face white in the glare before the other car whips past and they blow the red light like a bat out of hell.

[Cordelia Sarafin-Diego] One has to assume that, when operating in a language she has a full command of, she is a fairly charismatic young woman. This said, the fact that she can make halfway witty conversation must be testament to the fact that she is learning English much faster than most other students. He passes a redlight and she reaches for the proverbial oh shit bar, only to find that there is no oh shit bar. Her eyes widen, she turns her head a little to the side, as though she's expecting to plow into something full force.

They're through the intersection, and she laughs. It's a full bodied, infinitely amused sound.

"Bruce Wayne has all the fun," she says, full of mock pouting and whiney teenaged woe... which she keeps up for three second before she looks at the spedometer.

"Aee! Qué putas pasa! Mas rapido!"

[Ivan Press] "Oh come on," Ivan scoffs, his eye barely flicking down to the speedometer that reads, oh, 85mph on a city road. "Do you know what the top speed of this baby is? 250mph. It's like a fucking plane on the ground. I'll take you to the speedway someday and show you."

The speedway, he says. He means the racetrack, where professional IndyCars race. He means -- utterly seriously -- that one day he'll just call the Chicagoland Speedway up and book them privately for an entire day, just for himself, just for the sole purpose of whipping this monster around and around the track until they hit two hundred fifty miles an hour

and blow through all their gas in fifteen minutes.

Not tonight, though. Tonight, the drive is blessedly/sadly short. Then Ivan's pulling into the lot of ... well, a surprisingly tasteful building, considering what it is. Low-key, a minimalist block of pale grey concrete etched with wide horizontal troughs, adorned with a vaguely grecoroman portico out front trimmed in polished steel, bearing the simple letters:

vip's

There's also the silhouette of a woman up on the corner, backlit by dim neon. The bouncers look clean and respectable. Their eyes only widen a little bit at the sight of what Ivan's driving. Then he's sweeping open the passenger's door and handing out a woman -- a girl, really -- who's nearly as tall as he is, whose legs go on forever, whose saucy little skirt makes the huge dorky glasses almost look like a form of nerd chic. Ivan shuts the door behind her and then offers his arm like a proper gentleman.

"Have you been to a strip club before?"

[Cordelia Sarafin-Diego] She does the math in her head to determine how many kilometers per hour that is, and Cordelia looks like she might just have an aneurism. Her eyes light up, and he might as well have jsut told her that she was getting a pony for Christmas. By this time, however, they're at the club.

V.I.P. By the way, it's a strip club.

Nerd chic. It's hard to pull off, and Cordelia might be coming close this evening. Who knows, really. She takes his hand, and steps ouyt. Thanks to the shoes, she's not towering over Ivan this evening- it is, however, a distinct possibility that it could happen. This nerd moonlights as an Amazon. she takes his arm, and shoots Ivan one of those vaguely coy I know what I'm doing smiles.

Which, of course, is in complete juxtaposition to the response to his question of whether or not she's been to a strip club before.

"Nope," she says, "topless beaches in Costa del Sol... es different."

She shrugs.

[Ivan Press] "Well," he replies, "this is a good place to start."

It occurs to him, of course, that she never did really answer his question: who are you? She's not batman, obviously, but there is a certain enigma to Cordelia. Every time he thinks he has her more or less pinned down -- well. She tends to shift just a little. Just enough to,

let's be frank,

stay interesting. Keep his ever so ephemeral interest. Cordelia may or may not have known there was a tribal moot tonight; she certainly doesn't know that at that tribal moot there was flirtation, there was skirtchasing, and then -- quite suddenly -- there was boredom. That's how he rolls. Fickle. He can't even commit to a pack for long.

He really does wear that suit, though. It looks good on him, cut so well to his lean body, so elegant and dark with his shirt beneath rich and brick-red, his tie perfectly matched to jacket and shirt both and knotted in a big double windsor that stands as sharp contrast to the sleekness of his attire. And then there's the easy charisma, the boldness that doesn't even bother at subtlety, though god knows he can lie; and above all else, the bank account. Small wonder the starved swans line up for a turn.

She's no starved swan, though. She's Batman. And anyway -- they're at the door now, and Ivan is paying cover with a Centurion card, and when they're inside

it's a world of bass and darkness, spot lighting in hot colors; neon at the bar. This is the sort of place that calls itself an adult cabaret; that calls its personnel entertainers. The waitstaff is polite and professional. The dancers are first-rate. It's busy on a Saturday night, and most the clientele looks the way Ivan does: young, rich, out to have fun. There are a surprising amount of women in the audience. They're offered a VIP suite, but Ivan declines: he wants a seat right there at the edge of the runway.

"This," he informs Cordelia as they have a seat, "is where the real action is." And then, to the waitress, "Let's have a bottle of Zyr here. Two shotglasses. And caviar on toast. Beluga if you have it. Siberian sturgeon will do if you don't. And send ... " Ivan eyes the lineup of presently unengaged 'entertainers', "that one and that one and that one over."

[Cordelia Sarafin-Diego] She is a coman of many interests, and many different skillsets. She's a girl who bought a building once, who lives in a dorm to avoid living in a nice apartment, who hs carried on conversations in an amalgam of western european languages-

And stares at women almost as much as Ivan does.

The dancers here are actually entertainers- the fact that clothing comes off is just an added bonus. She heads to the front of the runway with Ivan, though her attention tracks to the unengaged entertainers... There's a blonde who gets little attention, and a redhead who Cordelia absolutely can not keep her eyes off of for a moment. Jaw drops, brows raise, and she takes a good three seconds to compose herself.

This is a good place to start.
"It gets better?" she sounds amazed, and sits herself down. She looks at one of the entertainers again, "cómo se ellas quedan en el polo?"

She gestures frm the 'entertainers' to the pole.

[Ivan Press] It's been said before, and it'll be said again: Ivan is an excellent host. He throws amazing parties, and though the Silver Fang tribe in this city hasn't had the pleasure yet, the glitterati of Chicago are already talking about the penthouse, the parties, the food and the booze and the music and the people, my god, have you ever seen so many beautiful people in one place?

-- all of which goes to say: he pays attention to his guest. Cordelia is, in a sense, his guest. He notices when she stares at the redhead, and then he's waving down the waitress and saying, "That one too. Would you please send her over?"

Then he's taking a seat, and the girls are sashaying over with their bare legs and their almost-bare bodies and their smooth little smiles. Conversation goes along the lines of what's your name, baby? and I'm Destiny and mmm, I'll take good care of you and

somewhere in the middle of that, a surprisingly brisk, businesslike laying down of the rules. One of the girls wants you to keep your hands to yourself. One of them just doesn't want you slobbering on her. One of them won't take off her bikini bottoms, and one of them is already undoing her top and draping it over Ivan's head with a giggle.

Cordelia's speaking in spanish, and Ivan's laughing as he paws the bra off his head and tosses it on the table. He has no idea what she's saying up until she points at the pole, and then he gets it.

"Gabrielle," when you play the field like Ivan does, you get good at attaching names to faces instantly, "be a sweetheart and give this blushing girl her first poledance, will you?"

Vodka arrives. And caviar. Ivan goes for the vodka first, pouring shots for Cordelia and himself, clinking his glass to the girl's before tossing it down.

"&+1047;&+1072; &+1078;&+1077;&+1085;&+1097;&+1080;&+1085;!"

[Cordelia Sarafin-Diego] Like a good girl who really, really, really desn't want to get kicked out of nirvanha, she sits on her hands, and is very good about... well... not touching. She has a grin on her face, and appreciation changes tgo amazement because... well... in all honesty, Cordelia's probably never seen a set of tits like that on a dancer. Most of the dancers she spends time with are... well... starving waifs.

Or, frankly, just not blessed up top. These women, however, are lovely.

Shots are poured, and Ivan says something that she doesn't understand, though he is raising a glass to it, so she grins something bright and vivacious and replies, "na zdraví, gracias."

Clink.
Downed.

"Gracias Gabriella, es appreciated," she says. And, for both her own enjoyment and looking for the technical aspect, she watches. She glances at Ivan and replies, "do not get glittery. Por favor y gracias."

[Cordelia Sarafin-Diego] (close that tag)

[Ivan Press] "No no," Ivan corrects, "&+1047;&+1072; &+1078;&+1077;&+1085;&+1097;&+1080;&+1085;! Zaaa. Zhennnshchin! It means to women!"

And on that note, he slams down another shot and pours Cordelia a second, and -- well. Let's put it this way. Gabrielle spins round and round the pole, and every other time she makes a revolution, it seems, Ivan is pushing another shot at Cordelia and taking another one himself.

Pretty soon it's not one bottle and two shotglasses on the table; it's three or four bottles of crystal clear vodka and a dozen little glasses, and all the entertainers are getting a little buzzed even though it's sort of kind of not allowed by the management, and Ivan's got a stripper on his lap and another one gyrating up on the table, and another one is rubbing up on Cordelia and knocking her glasses askew, and Ivan's laughing as he's scooping up caviar and dropping it in the girl-on-his-lap's mouth, and then on her cleavage where he doesn't hesitate to suck the cool, faintly sticky little eggs off her skin before tilting his head back and

-- well. Apparently Jade doesn't consider a tonguekiss 'slobbering'.

"Cordelia!" Ivan shouts suddenly over the music, turning away from the laughing stripper on his lap. By now Mr. Ivan Press is, as they say, plastered, "Stop being a wallflower. Get up and work that pole, girl!"

[Cordelia Sarafin-Diego] She repeats after him, watches his mouth, "Zaaa, zhenn... schin?"

Which, after the third or fourth (or was it the fith?) shot, because, zaaschzechnefuckit- viva las mujeres! Followed by laughter. Her hair was a mess, and she has not stopped laughing. At first, seh ahd been blushing a little, a little nervous to actually... well... do anything except exactly what she was told, but by this point? She is too far to really... well... care.

Ivan isn't the only one who is plastered. It seems that with Mr. Press, there comes booze and a good time, but there would inevitably be a hangover.

Ehem, this? However, was worth the impending doom of the morning after.

Cordelia! "Waddayawaaaaaaant?" she laughs.

He tells her to quit being a wall flower and the blonde stands up, a little abruptly so she brushes a little into the stripper. She promptly apologizes (half heartedly), but she's pretty close, and smells a little like alcohol (understatement) and her pupils are the size of dinner plates. She's glassy, she's fabulous-

No.

She's Batman.

She heads to the stage and laughs, though it takes a little effort to actually get up there and... well... not fall off.

"No me dejes caer," she says, and toddles, wobbles on over. Doesn't trip, either, though she does kick her shoes off rather unceremoniously off stage. One slides to the edge and the other gets flung at her old seat.

[Cordelia Sarafin-Diego] [Oh god, don't suck at this (PRIIIIIDE!), charisma+performance: drop it like it's hot.]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 9, 10 (Success x 2 at target 7) [WP] Re-rolls: 1

[Cordelia Sarafin-Diego] [and, for those of you that are garou, purebreed?]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 1, 9, 9 (Success x 1 at target 7)

[Cordelia Sarafin-Diego] [It ain't enough!]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 2, 5, 8, 8, 8, 9, 10 (Success x 5 at target 8) [WP] Re-rolls: 1

[Cordelia Sarafin-Diego] [again again]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 4, 5, 10 (Success x 1 at target 8)

[Ivan Press] So let it be said: they are not the only ones near the stage. This place is rather crowded tonight, and Cordelia toddles up on stage in her nerd glasses and her cute little skirt there are cheers and whoops --

particularly when Ivan puts his hands on her ass to give her that last little boost up. Destiny -- wait no, Gabriella -- is a good sport about it all, relinquishing the pole to the amateur with a little flourish. Ivan's grinning ear to ear, and he's not so much pouring vodka as he's sloshing it out now, giving half a shot to Jade-Destiny-Gabriella-Jenny-whateverhernameis on his lap and dumping the rest down his throat.

He slams the glass down on the table, fiery and laughing, and starts pounding his fist to the beat of the bass. "Delia! Delia! Delia! Delia!" The chant picks up, and it spreads. People know her name now. The audience is shouting her name, and let's face it: for a Silver Fang, there are few things more intoxicating than that.

[Cordelia Sarafin-Diego] This is one of those moments where we realize that Cordelia takes a great deal of pride in what she does, and what she does well. Because, she gets a good start, despite the fact that she is, in fact, not god to drive or operate heavy machinery. She is, however, good enough to get on a pole, and dance for a moment or two.

Which, of course, works for her for a minute. she's got the basics down. The usual drunken fratgirl action, where she half shakes her ass and works the pole like she's going to forget its phone number in the morning.

Except, of course, until it hits her that even though she's trying this isn't quite good enough. Neuroses manifest, sometimes, when your inhibitions are down, and that insatiable desire to push, to try, to strive for an unnattainable perfection is there.

It is, at the moment where she is upside down and supporting herself almost completely by her legs, with her back arched and pulling off her shirt, that it becomes clear that either Cordelia is full of shit and she has been to a strip club before, or she is some kind of pole dancing savant.

Her bra is pink. It glows in a black light.

She flips back over, and works that pole in ways that will invariably end up on Youtube tomorrow. She holds herself up, spins, grinds, moves like she was born to move. In ways that, to be quite honest, Good Silver Fang kin don't move. And there it is, a genuine smile on her face- there is little better than this.

Right now, people know her name, and don't care if she looks like a nerd or if she's too tall. This is it. Praise. Recognition, and there is very little that is better than that, being known, recognized. Being at the vanguard, being at the forefront. She is, at that moment the standard.

When it's all over, she does one final walk around the pole, and gives some overly graceful, flourished bow. The woman can't keep a straight face for long, and she's glowing by the time she's sitting on the edge of the stage.

Can't blame the vodka, either.

[Ivan Press] Let's be honest. Ivan was expecting Cordelia to go up and maybe shake her rear once or twice. Possibly fall off stage. He's pleasantly surprised when she starts dancing with the pole, while makes the crowd cheer and pound harder on their tables, and makes Ivan laugh and share another shot with the entertainer on his lap.

But then. Then Cordelia decides this shit isn't good enough, and suddenly she's hanging upsidedown by her thighs; she's swinging around that pole like she's got wings. The crowd is roaring for more and her name's become a frenzied tribal chant, but Ivan isn't actually chanting anymore because his mouth has, quite simply, dropped open. They call this shock and awe.

When she's done and sitting on the edge of the stage, he picks his jaw up again. Jenny's going over to hug Cordelia, saying you go girl!, and management is quite possibly thinking of hiring her as a new dancer, and Ivan's just -- raising his eyebrows so high they almost disappear into his hair.

"What was that?" He hands her a congratulatory shot. "Who are you?"

[Cordelia Sarafin-Diego] She kicks her legs back and forth a little, completely unphased by the fact that she's in a bra, a skirt, and some flimsy underwear. Jenny gets a hug, and one of those little air kisses that somehow an intoxicated Spaniard can get away with. Katherine would die thinking about this. Her mother would die, herbrother, her father, her sisters? Would all crap themselves just thinking that Cordelia got up and did that.

They are still chanting her name, and it makes her sit up straighter.

"I teach dance en España," she tells him, "soy una chica con muchos talentos."

The shot is thrown back, and she puts the glass on the stage.

"Now you try," she says.

[Ivan Press] There's a second when Cordelia is quite sure Ivan is going to balk and refuse. It's beneath his dignity. It's unseemly conduct for a gentleman and a Fang. There's no way, no how, no.

Except -- he doesn't decline. Some gleam enters his eyes, some spark of a challenge met and accepted. He grabs the bottle, takes a shot straight from the neck, and then swats Jade off his lap with a sidelong grin. Holding Cordelia's gaze, grinning sharp as a razor, Ivan vaults nimbly up on the stage.

There are girls in the club too. Here with their boyfriends, here with their guy buddies, here because it's titillating and a little forbidden, here because bisexuality is hot, bitch, and empowering, and all that. There's a fresh round of shrieking and screaming when Ivan takes the stage and -- yeah. Certain Silver Fangs would faint dead away at the thought of what he's doing now; but then, this wouldn't be the first time that's been true of Ivan.

His coat comes off first, tossed in some haphazard direction. His tie goes in another. Buttons fly every which way when he tears his shirt open. When he gets to his pants, they're too well-stitched, too well-made to tear off easily, so he makes a ripping rending mess of it -- seams bursting, fabric ripping, finally coming loose to be thrown in Cordelia's vague direction.

Then he's dropping to his knees, quite frankly grinding and thrusting more or less in Cordelia's face, laughing, while Destiny or Jenny or someone grabs the bottle of vodka and upends it over his head, and then some plastered college coed's crawling up on stage to lick it off his chest, and --

yeah. Internet meme fame time.

[Cordelia Sarafin-Diego] She has to think he's going to back down, but he doesn't.

No, instead he's up on stage, and the coat goes off in some direction. That nice, rather handsome suitcoat is flung, along with the tie, which ends up being worn on some girl's head, who giggles about it. Cordelia has to watch. Bisexuality is, in fact, hot, and whether some men int he audience want to admit it or not, Ivan? Is a good looking man. Buttons are flying, and her glasses work like some protective covering, one plinks off and she swats away another one.

Let it be known that she doesn't actually get out of the way, she just swats uselessly at a nice button. The pants get tossed in her direction, which she holds up in triumph and laughs over. She ties it over her shoulder like a soccer mom sweater.

In a few seconds, moments, beats (sixteen count sets), his junk is in her face. And she takes one step back, two, and puts a finger up.

Very calmly, Cordelia gets her purse and retrieves a rather infamous AmEx with someone else's name on it. She comes back, an hooks a finger through the waistband of, well, whatever might be covering his junk up. And, in the most prim-and-proper of fashions, in a way that would make Katherine Bellamonte herself praise Cordelia for her decorum, she slips her AmEx into his underwear, and ends up patting the card, which was suspiciously close to his junk, rather carefully.

"I don't have visa, lo siento."

[Ivan Press] For inquiring minds: Ivan is a boxer briefs sort of man. And his boxer briefs at present are most decidedly designer, in a shade of red that quite possibly matches (matched) his shirt. Black piping, too, rather shamelessly bracketing and drawing attention to the main event.

They're soaked in vodka now, those boxer brief. He's soaked in vodka. The Bugatti will smell like vodka after this, at least until he gets his people -- and there are so very many of them, minor kinsmen and kinswomen of his family that aren't quite well-bred enough to find favorable matches, but will still see their statuses elevated by a temporary association of trust and loyalty to a trueborn -- to take it to the body shop to get detailed. That doesn't matter, though. Cordelia, ladylike and precise, slips an AmEx into the waistband of his underwear. Ivan throws back his head laughing; catches her hand and brings it to his mouth and

sucks her fingers, one by one, grinning around each.

Then he turns and claims a kiss from the sorority girl with the eager tongue, and -- for inquiring minds -- there's tongue involved in that kiss, too. A lot of tongue. Enough to make the girl moan audibly, most likely because she is officially smashed off her ass. Ivan gets up then, taking a gracious bow or two or three, doing a quick lap of the runway/stage to make a show of grabbing up dollar bills getting waved in the air. Then it's one more bow before he hops off the stage, clothes scattered and mostly ruined, sleek body wet and faintly sticky with drying alcohol.

"Toss me my jacket, love," he says to Jade/Jenny/someone, catching it out of the air when she does and wiping his face with it. It's dropped on the floor, after, and Ivan scoops up caviar with his bare hand and eats it, washes it down with one more swig of vodka before holding his hand out for Cordelia's.

"All right," he says, smiling. "We've sufficiently roused the mob. Let's get out of here."

[Cordelia Sarafin-Diego] The Bugatti will, in fact, smell like vodka. Not even like shampoo and sex and strange women and vodka... Well, we can't rule all that out, but it's going to smell like booze, and somehow the idea of riding with Ivan while smashed sounds fun. She was tingling with antici-

(he's licking her fingers, one by one, and there was that consideratoin again. He grins, she grins, raises a brow and adopts an expression that was usually masked by the Clark Kent style glasses. Soon enough, those damned glasses might actually be nerd chic, if only for a week. But it doesn't stop the fact that he sucked her fingers, one by one, put on a performance, and that? She could appreciate.)

-pation.

The crowd is roused, they've sewn enough chaos for the evening. At least, here, anyway. The way she's grinning, the way she's taking his hand and all but sauntering out of the place, with her purse haphaardly dragged and her shoes missing and her shirt considered MIA in the crowd, she's not entirely done for the evening.

Who are you?

"Good idea," she says. Affirms, and doesn't bother to straighten her skirt out. She even blows a few kisses as she's leaving. She parties like a Kennedy. She parties like a Spanish royal. After all, who else could make a variant on trashcan punch and make it seem elegant?

[Ivan Press] The pair tripping out of VIP is almost unrecognizable as the attractive young pair that slid into it an hour or two ago. Gone is his dapper suit, so sleek and cutting-edge; gone is his pocket square, his shirt, his tie -- even his shoes are sloppily half-on. As for her: the blouse is gone. What's left of her saucy little gucci get-up is the dress ... and a pink bra. Their hands are linked and they're laughing and literally soaked in alcohol and buzzed and he's waving goodbye as the door closes behind them and --

she's wondering where to next? and he looks nowhere near done. He looks at her. It's scarcely past eleven at night, and the night is young. He smiles at her and he wants to know, "Want to go to New York City?"

... now?

[Cordelia Sarafin Diego] Does she want to go to NYC? New York City. This, of course, is where her knowledge of American geography fails her because, on a certain level, Cordelia is unaware of how far away that is. Then again, what she does know is that states are, essentially, a bunch of tiny, interconnected countries that use the same currency. So, his asking her if she wanted to go to New York City was no different than a friend saying Cordelia- get your shit, we're going to Belgium.

And if she had a Euro for every time that happened? Well, she'd have at least seven Euro, but we aren't talking about Belgium, we're talking about New York City.

She holds his hand, and does the little swing-it-back-and-forth-idly thing that people do periodically. She smells like vodka; she likes it, Her eyes light up and widen behind those nerd glasses. She nods, and all but drags him in the direction she thinks the car is in. She isn't wobbling- fucking dancers and their balance.

"Shcyeeee-aaaaah!" she sputters, like she can't fathom being anywhere but New York City right now. Right. Fucking. Now.

[Ivan Press] "That's not New York City," Ivan says patiently, digging in his heels and dragging her the other way. "That's ... Texas. New York is this way."

They find the car again. It's essentially unchanged, though they are most certainly changed. When the doors shut the interior of the Bugatti immediately begins to smell like vodka. Like copious amounts of clear Russian vodka. The engine guns to life, and as Ivan backs out he clips a bluetooth headset to his ear and intones:

"Dial. Dmitri." Then there's a burst of Russian, a few pauses, a few Da. Das, and then a goodbye and a hang-up. Ivan replaces the earpiece in the glove compartment, leaning over into Cordelia's space to do so, and then claps it shut and smiles at her. "Off we go," he says.

They drive: not toward the vast, sprawling Chicago O'Hare airport but toward the much closer, much smaller Midway Airport. On his way there, Ivan swerves around slower traffic, cuts people off, runs reds.

When he gets to the airport, he bypasses the passenger terminals altogether. There's a security gate, where a guard checks his credentials without batting an eyelash at the state of the man himself, not to mention his semi-lovely semi-dorky companion, and then waves him on with a polite, Have a good evening, Mr. Press. They're out on the tarmac then, running alongside terminal buses and luggage trailers, speeding past them, coming to a stop near a long, lean Learjet just now taxiing to a stop from storage in one of the private hangars.

What, did Cordelia think they were going to fly economy?

Ivan kills the engine on his car, pulls up the handbrake. Dmitri comes to meet him, holding two garment bags, which he hands to Ivan. "Don't wait up," Ivan advises cheerfully, and then comes around to sweep the passenger's door open for Cordelia.

"This is my father's plane," he explains, with a tone of don't worry, I'm not that extravagant. This might pass for modesty Ivan. "It's on loan to me while I'm in Chicago."

The door opens as they approach, swinging down into a small staircase. Ivan escorts Cordelia aboard, where a smiling man in his mid-forties and a sharp airliner's uniform doffs his hat.

"Mr. Press. Miss. Good evening. I'll start the pre-flight check. Just let me know when you're ready to get underway."

They make quite a sight, half-undressed, smelling like grain liquor. No one says a word, though, and Ivan is far too confident, arrogant and rich to look abashed. There's a sense -- everywhere, from everyone -- that no one is terribly surprised to find him in such a state, escorting a young woman in a similar state. No telling how often this happens, but then: Cordelia's never been so naive as to think herself the first, the very first.

The interior of the plane, when she sees it, proves that it does in fact belong to his father and not to him. Ivan himself would have done it up in club chic-- color lighting, dark interiors, possibly some lounge soundtrack to go with it all. This plane, however, is all conservative luxury: dark woods, creamy leather. Though a standard Learjet of this size seats eight, there are only four seats visible in a forward lounge area. There's a galley at the front of the cabin on the starboard side, the aft wall of which is knocked out to form a full bar. No tender tonight. There's an unusually large lavatory across from the galley. There's a large television along one wall, a computer on the other. And in the back, about halfway down the cabin: a single door, closed.

"Bedroom suite," Ivan explains, winking, and then hands her one of the two coat bags. "I asked Dmitri to bring you a replacement blouse. There's a shower in the lavatory, if you want to get cleaned up before we get underway. Save me some water. Unless you'd rather I joined you."

[Cordelia Sarafin Diego] "Tejas? ... ugh, fuck Tejas," she replies, and turns to go the other way. They find the car, soon enough, which isn't in Texas. The Bugatti smell like them. They smell like booze. Cordelia doesn't seem to care. He leans across her lap to put the put the headset away, which, in turn, makes her lean into him. Who really cares why she does it, but her pink bra is pressing against him, and all the bits that are half hidden within are, too. She's got the potential to be incredibly awkward.

There's a moment, where she looks over with glassy eyes and a conspiratorial smile, shortly after the Da.Da's.

"Teach me Russian," she says. She doesn't even have English down and she wants to move on to something else.

It's off to O'Hare, though, and One could call her a realist when it comes to extravagance. It's not so much the knowledge of not being the first person who will board Daddy's jet and fly to New York City (or wherever they might go), it's knowing that she won't be the last person to do it that keeps her grounded. She's aware, and as a result it makes being around her less... well... awkward. Which is difficult, because this is Cordelia we're talking about, here.

She steps into the Learjet, and the place radiates Dad-chic, "así es como mi papá decorar un avión, también."

They smell like grain liquor, and she runs a sticky hand through her hair. It's straight right now, though she's inevitably going to shower. It's going to quit being straight in a minute and become a mess of blonde curls. And, at the moment, there is an expectation of utter practicality there, which is ironically why she's taking him by the hand and all but dragging him to the shower with her. It's not really even a lustful action. She thought about it, ran numbers in her head, and seems to have determined that, yes, she's got a lot of hair that she's going to need to wash, and it could take awhile.

Ms. Sarafin-Diego is one Hell of an environmentally friendly lady.

"Seamos adultos acerca de esto," she tells him, "no es algo que no hayas visto antes."

And it's off to shower.`

[Ivan Press] While they're in the car, she's pressing up against his arm in a way that makes him raise his eyebrows and grin at her. It turns out she's got an ulterior motive after all. Teach me Russian, she says, and he laughs and shakes his head, slapping the glove compartment closed.

"Are you kidding me?" he says. "Then I'll have no way to get back at you the next time you and half the Fangs in the city start speaking Spanish. I mean what the hell. Our entire tribe comes out of Russia, and I'm the only one here that speaks the language."

Then it's off to the airport, off to the aeroplane, and as they're getting on she's blithering on in spanish and he catches something about her daddy, decorating, plane, tambien. He knows tambien because he saw the movie, et yo mama tambien. Wait, no, that's not it. Y tu mama tambien. Whatever.

"Yeah, this?" he waves a hand around the main cabin. "I think this was all stock. Straight from Bombardier, Inc. When he loaned it to me I put in the bedroom and the showers," of course, "and the bar."

Of course.

Then she's taking him by the hand and pulling him toward the showers. He has no idea what she's saying now, but it doesn't matter. He stops her again, laughing. "If we're going to share," he says, nodding his head aftward, "we should use the bigger shower. To tell you the truth," a conspiratorial murmur, this, "the shower in the front is a modified industrial safety shower. That's how small it is."

Two showers. On a goddamn Learjet (well. to be exact: a Challenger 605 jet, but that's like calling a rollerblade a K2 inline-skate), which typically stocks zero. Only Ivan would do such a thing.

Through the door in the aft, the bedroom. Bed-cabin. It's decorated along the same motif, dark woods and conservatism. Apparently daddy vetoed the platform beds and the mirrors on the ceiling. It's small, in truth -- the entire plane is perhaps seven or eight feet from side to side. Ivan tosses his garment bag on the bed. The mattress is a shade smaller than queensized, and they have to go around it to get to the door to the rear lavatory, which is indeed larger. It's almost the size of a real bathroom. It's even got tile on the walls.

Inside, Ivan latches the door. He gives Cordelia a quirky, playful grin, and then peels off the very last item of clothing he's wearing. Not much modesty to Mr. Press, nope. Then again, if memory serves, it's nothing she hasn't seen before.

"Well, I've gone all-in," he says. "Your turn."

[Cordelia Sarafin Diego] "Not Spanish, French. Es different. Spanish es sexy... French?... French es muy pretencioso. Y pretty. Euhn-" she makes some awful, nasal sound that occurs periodically in French words, "not sexy."

But all said and done- this is nothing she hasn't seen before. And she doesn't seem to be the most shy about nudity, either. There's a difference, a subtle one, between something that is desire and something that is... well... sexy pragmaticism. If there was such a thing. The boxer briefs go flying. And she's getting undressed. the skirt disappears.

Her underwear and her bra don't match. The bra's pink, the panties are fluorescent green. They would also glow under a black light. There's not a lot of fanfare with taking off her bra, it just gets shucked to the side, molded cups and all. She's really got a nice body. More than a nice body, Cordelia's got a damn good looking body. From a modern sense.

And therein lies the problem, the juxtaposition between it all, because here she is. She's a tall young woman, with long legs, a small waist and breasts that seem proportional to the rest of her body. Cordelia is built like a runway model- the kind they would actually allow on the runways in Madrid, but only barely. From a modern sense, she is lovely. But, she's tall. She's tall and she's danced for years. Her hips are narrow and her breasts are small and therein lies the problem.

Because with all that breeding, all that Fuck me now, I'll give you sons and History that she all but bleeds? She should be more desireable. She doesn't have the curves that speak of fertility, or te bone structure that says that labor would be easy. For a young woman who is expected to breed, this is a problem. She comes so very close to the mark in so many things but just... misses it. Her hips, her thighs, her breasts, her eyes? All of it. Almost. But not quite.

She doesn't even seem to care about that.

And she isn't thinking about that when she takes her panties off and shoots them at Ivan like a rubber band.

"Pew!"

And she saunters/staggers off to the shower.

[Ivan Press] Let's be honest now. If one speaks of missing the mark, one can't possibly leave out: the glasses. That in and of itself sails Cordelia so far from the mark that most up-and-coming Fangs -- those pretty, petty boys with their heads full of tales of King this and Duke that with their lovely wives, slayer of this and conqueror of that with their ravishing concubines -- would barely even consider her. And that's not even mentioning those narrow hips (how would she birth strong, strapping cubs?) and small breasts (how would she nourish them?).

Ivan, however, isn't exactly looking for a mate here. And, let's continue to be honest, he bangs runway models on a regular basis, jutting bones and all. Maybe he just turns the lights out. Maybe he puts a pillow on them. Maybe they're always on top. Regardless, the point is:

Cordelia strips off her shirt, and Ivan watches with his head tilted at some feral, appreciative angle. She doesn't stare at him, but he certainly stares at her, eyes gleaming. She unclips her bra, and he mouths a playful, smirking yeow! while his eyebrows flit. She lowers her panties and he unabashedly circles around for a look from the rear.

This bathroom is larger, but it's not really large. There's maybe six feet two inches of headroom, total. Ivan's head brushes the ceiling. Between the sink, and the toilet, and the shower, there's only perhaps room enough for them to stand arm's reach from one another. It's not much of a reach for him to take her gently by the hips, his hands warm, his fingers long; elegant.

"Very, very nice," he opines, and -- that's a little less playful. There's a certain note in his tone, a certain burr in his voice.

Then she's turning, and she's snapping her panties at him like a rubber band. He catches them against his chest, laughing, and hooks them over the faucet. Then she's stepping past him to get in the shower, and he's catching her by the hand.

"Wait. Wait wait wait." He tugs her back, and she's a dancer: she'll recognize that gentle tug on her hand and know that it means, turn around. Face me. When she does, his eyes go south, and what do you know, dorky gawky little Cordelia's landscaped.

Dorky, gawky little Cordelia ... who pounced Ivan on his bed the day after she met him. Granted, that was a bluff, but -- then she followed it up with that kiss. And then, the striptease. And now, this.

Ivan's starting to get the idea that Cordelia's got a bit of a freak streak buried under all that mousiness.


And now, Ivan doesn't know Cordelia and Christian have been making sweet little overtures toward one another. Ivan, ironically, does know that Mrs. Durante was most likely corrupting Christian at this very moment. Ivan also knows Mrs. Durante -- which Cordelia does not know. In all senses of the word. It's a burgeoning love quadrangle, and half the players have no idea what the other half of the players are doing.

However, the point is, if Ivan did know about Christian and Cordelia, it's possible that he'd be a gentleman and let them have their shot at the happily ever after he's unlikely to provide any girl. Ever. It's also thoroughly possible that he would pursue Cordelia all the more intently. If it were the first case, however, he might want to take Christian aside. He might want to tell the awkward teenager who seems to think Cordelia is a pure, virginal little misfit; who seems to think she's all sweetness and gentleness and pure white light without the faintest hint of a scarlet side --

That girl's wild, bro. If you keep acting like she's a dainty little virgin miss, she's going to get bored and run off with a Shadow Lord.

And then Ivan would probably get throated. But it'd be worth it.


We digress. Back to the situation at hand. Ivan's inspecting with a connoisseur's eye, and Miss Cordelia is revealing yet another surprise, and Ivan lets out a laugh.

"Well, look at that,"

and his thumb slides down from her navel until his fingers slip between her thighs, and there's nothing but boldness there; boldness in his touch, and a slow, rakish laziness to his grin.

"You really are a Spanish blonde."

[Cordelia Sarafin Diego] Those glasses are the greatest self defense mechanism the blonde has. Because, she is a fairly observant young woman, and she knows all those up-and-coming Fangs, has met a few and knows well and good that they have their fill. She's the last of five. The last kinfolk child her parents have to worry about. All things considered, she's managed to thwart some very well-laid plans just by being... well... adamantly herself.There are men who see her as a fixer-upper. It gives them something to do. In some way, she enjoys the fight, the exertion of will, the whole thing.

Because, in the end? They give up and go home. Chicago has been different, she's met those who don't lose interest, and those who won't go home. She's met people who are still trying to determine who and what exactly she is, and it doesn't seem to be for the purpose of finding some part of her that they need to salvage, polish, and make acceptable. Maybe she's just afraid of being desirable. Maybe this is teenaged rebellion extended. Putting her foot down. Whatever.

Point being: even normal guys are turned off by the glasses. Which, it seems, is just fine with Cordelia.

She seems very much unphased by the fact that she's naked, that he's naked, that they're in a bedroom and headed to a bathroom. He cricles, and she isn't nervous. Because, well, this is Ivan Press we're talking about here. And there's that calm collected put-togetherness that comes with knowing she isn't the first, the very first, to end up naked in a bathroom with him and she certainly won't be the last. He tells her to wait, she turns around and rolls her eyes in over-exadgerated frustration.

"Ayee, qué es esto?" she says. She . his eyes travel down south, and she laughs and it's decidedly playful, "si, yo soy una chica y tengo una coño bonita. Usted ha visto uno antes, no seas tan sorprendido."

His hand travels down, and his fingers slip between her thighs. And there's that mment where there is consideration again. The same kind of consideration she'd had when she was sitting on top of him the first time they met. it's not immediate, but his hand doesn't get to stay between her thighs for too long. Her cheeks have a flush on them that can't be completely equated out to... well... being a bit tipsy. She redirects his hand to her outer thigh instead.

"Es verdad," she tells him, and she does grin at him. The problem is, she moved his hand, but she looked him in the eyes a little longer than necessary. Considered a little longer than necessary. Blushed a little less than she should have.

[Ivan Press] He lets her move his hand. His eyes glint with amusement as she does, and he takes a step closer. They can hear the twin engines of the small jet cycling up as their pilot runs them through their ignition checkup. Ivan hardly seems to notice. He's focused now: his eyes visibly green at this distance, his hand as warm and smooth as the rest of his body.

No husky brawler, this one. A lean, lithe creature, built long and sleek. Were he kin, he would have turned into some Garou female's pretty little boy toy. He's not kin, though.

"Cordelia," Ivan says, low, somewhere between coaxing and amused, "let me be frank for a moment. I am desperately curious. I am dying know. I want to know what you sound like when you come. And since you're here, naked, in a shower, on a private plane with me, I can surmise you're not entirely resistant to the notion of my finding out.

"If you're concerned about compromising your virtue -- I regret to inform you that little routine at VIP might have dealt its deathblow already. If you're concerned that I'll boast about this little encounter afterward, I promise you: I am discreet. I won't breathe a word. If you're concerned about reciprocation, I assure you I'm more than happy to tend to myself. After you leave the room, if you're squeamish about such things.

"And if you're just unsure whether or not you want to go through with this, let me tell you this.

"I," and it's another step closer, and now they're all but touching all along their bodies, and his eyes aren't merely visibly green but visibly hazel, visibly gold, visibly blue and grey and all those colors that ring the pupils at the core, "just want to make you feel good. No strings, no expectations, no shame. So really, Cordelia -- "

This isn't quite a kiss. This is more: his mouth drifting close to hers. He nips gently at her lower lip. Flicks his tongue across. Releases her, and smiles, and to call it disarming would be the understatement of a lifetime.

" -- What have you got to lose?"

[Cordelia Sarafin Diego] The idea of Cordelia ever being garou is a disconcerting thought. She doesn't seem the type to have any sort of rage, any force of anger. She doesn't even seem the type to lay down the law. She's no warrior- the whole issues with blood would make sure of that. That, however, isn't important.

His voice is low, and caught between coaxing and amused. She listens, though. Watches his mouth instead of his eyes, because she still doesn't quite catch all of the words and the meaning of what he said. She does, however, catch the gist. She's a master of context. She's there, with him, naked and in a shower. She just made some pole at a strip club her bitch and she doesn't have much in the way of virtue to really worry about. She doesn't have a lot to lose here.

It's so hard to listen to his speech, take that motion and not... want him. And not wonder what she did have to lose. There is desire there. Always, something that lurks under the surface. He asks what she has to lose, and she doesn't look at him for a moment. She smiles, and there's half a grin there.

"You shouldn't do it if you're going to get all emotionally entangled," she tells him. It might take a second before she quotes him, directly, "tido, pero al final no estoy haciendo esto si no significa nada. Prefiero que tu sea mi amigo en vez de una muesca en tu posición de la cama."

A beat, but she doesn't move away.

"Maybe later."

[Ivan Press] [at this point there was an empathy roll!]

[Cordelia Sarafin Diego] Ivan, after a little thinking, manages to get a read off of her. She wasn't really lying, she does like him. Not only that, but it is taking an effort to not... well.. make out with him, or possibly give him a lackluster handjob. There are forces standing in between, and one could call it inexperience of some form or fashion. There's also something else there- other interests perhaps, or maybe indigestion.That no isn't a no, it's a not right now. Or a not today. He knows, for a fact, that she's entertained the notion. And not just here. Now. When they're both naked in the shower of a Learjet.

[Ivan Press] Cordelia seems to keep thinking Ivan will understand her if she only speaks in Spanish often enough. He doesn't. He does, however, understand the words she does speak in English. And he definitely understands -- with a sort of experience-driven instinct -- the look in her eyes; the look on her face.

Hot. Tempted. But resistant.

So his hand doesn't find its way back between her legs. He stays close another moment, close enough that she could count his lashes if she tried; close enough that he can look at her mouth, study her breathing, lean into her and kiss her again, gently, a real kiss this time, lingering and long.

Then he reaches around and gives her pert little ass a squeeze -- she can feel him grinning against her mouth. "Right then," he whispers, and nods her into the shower. "Maybe later."

[Cordelia Sarafin Diego] In the end, they don't need to really say a lot. The basics that needed to be covered were covered in whatever broken, accented English she had. They were expressed in that lingering, tempted look. Want coupled with Shouldn't. And that word, that terrible word has stood in the way of many a task. People waste eternities not doing the things they shouldn't have done- it never ends well. Whatever comes out in Spanish makes little sense, but what comes out in English is understood.

There's a linguistic theory that states that people learn languages better when they're drunk, because they're less likely to worry about getting it all perfect and instead will just go with whatever they have. Walking out the door without their purse, their carkeys, or their past participles, but making it through the day without them anyway.

Body language suffices.

She's hot. Tempted. But resistant, so his hand moves and some part of her flickers, conflicted none the less. Silver Fang kin lived in a land of should nots. Good kin, the ones who have little to lose, learn that even though they should not, they can. Cordelia hasn't learned this lesson yet. He leans in, and she isn't flinching. She isn't shying away. She isn't anything but right. There. If she'd thought, she could count his eyelashes. Her glasses have been discarded, if for no other reason than you don't shower with glasses. Her eyes are blue. Not a light blue, either. More grey in the lighting than blue, really. In one of those brief moments, it's abundantly clear tat if Cordelia wanted to be pretty, she could have been.

The question then, is this: why didn't she want it?

She studies his face, over details and cheekbones and counts the hours until he'll have to shave again, if at all. Her lips are plush and pouty without realizing it. He leans in, and she meets him half way- not one to be taken, but an active participant. It lingers, then dissipates. He grins, squeezes her ass. She doesn't swat him away- she just laughs. Cordelia pulls back and heads off to the shower.

"You remember that," she tells him. Waggles a finger, "how long until New York City?"

[Ivan Press] You remember that, she admonishes, and he draws an X over his heart, mock-serious.

It doesn't keep him from following her into the shower, anyway. Call it pragmatism. A jet this size can't possibly carry that much hot water. Two showers on board is probably an extravagance; it's doubtful there's enough water for more than one decent shower. One sub-par bath. Ivan reaches down to start the water, though, whisking the curtain shut and turning the spray on as it warms.

Quarters are cramped. His head brushes the ceiling. Water pressure isn't great, but it'll do: warm enough and wet enough to get them clean, at least, and to rinse soap and shampoo off their bodies. "Well," he replies, sudsing up, "when we actually get off the ground, it'll be about an hour and a half, provided we get cleared to land by LaGuardia. If they put us in a holding pattern it might be longer. We should make it before last call, though."

He ducks under the spray, closing his eyes, scrubbing suds out of his hair and then off his face. His eyes opening again, he raises an eyebrow at her.

"You don't have to be anywhere in the morning, do you?"

[Cordelia Sarafin Diego] They're in close quarters, and thus are making the most of the fact that there really isn't a lot in the way of space, or hot water, on this flight. She half talks to herself, "Gracias a Dios que no se es gordo, o de lo contrario esto sería desagradable."

And it's true. If either of them were too much larger, this would not be a pleasant experience, or even an experience that should be possible for that matter. Now, her mind wanders to... well, now. How that would even work, his head is nearly touching the ceiling, she's not far behind, and she could probably brace herself against one wall of the shower with her legs firmly on the other wall.

Now she's thinking about sex, and not even from a turn-me-on standpoint. No, this is all logistics now. A problem to solve while she's wetting her hair down and using his shampoo and smelling like Ivan Press wihtout really smelling like Ivan Press. She's got her head under the water when he asks his next question.

"Ivan, I don't speak English. If I have to be somewhere in the morning-" she looks at him, and adopts an expression of confusion and learned helplessness that is so over-the-top it belongs on telemundo "-oi, no comprendo. Lo siento, monsoir."

[Ivan Press] "I," Ivan announces, flicking water off his hands and picking up the soap, "have no idea what you just said. Except 'thank God' at one point. And something about not understanding at another."

Considering he was coming on to her -- rather strongly, at that -- just moments ago, this has become a surprisingly platonic sort of shower. If one overlooks the fact that they're crammed into a sardine can, of course. And that their bodies brush every time he reaches past her for soap, or shampoo, or conditioner, or water, or a washcloth. Still: he keeps his hands to himself, focuses on getting clean, doesn't really waste time or water. Maybe that's the bottom line. Water's precious, and a limited resource. He doesn't want to end up soapy when it runs out.

"Really, Cordelia," he goes on, mock-chiding, "I'm going to enroll you in an ESL class soon if you don't get better at English."

[Cordelia Sarafin Diego] "I said," she starts, "thank god you are no fat, or else this would suck."

And she seems to be just fine with that. The sharing of space, the fact that this is strangely platonic nudity. Her hands are to herself, she tries to give him space when he needs it, or as much as she can give. Conditioner is left sitting for the time being. She hasn't rinsed just yet.

He's going to put her in ESL, and she fakes indignation.

"It's getting better!" she tells him, "I should have paid attention en clase. I skip for Czech. Who speaks Czech? Worst mistake ever!"

[Ivan Press] "I don't know," Ivan observes, "rumor around the Caern has it the Ahroun Elder and his mate say the filthiest things to each other in Czech. You might want to hang on to that one."

Then he's done, wiping his face with his hand and scattering the water to the shower floor. He steps out, shutting the curtain behind him to allow Cordelia time to tend to her much longer hair. Standing outside the small shower, Ivan towels off, then tucks it around his waist as if modesty had any place here whatsoever anymore.

"Also," he adds, raising his voice a little over the noise of the shower, "if I were fat, I think fitting into the shower would be the least of your concerns."

[Cordelia Sarafin Diego] "The first thing you learn in a language is how to talk dirty," she says. Matter of fact. Cheeky.

She gets on to dealing with her hair, which takes a lot more time than Ivan is probably used to dealing with his own hair. She tilts her head to the side. Cordelia laughed a little.

If I were fat, I think fitting into the shower would be the least of your concerns.
"And why is that?"

[Ivan Press] Through the shower curtain, Cordelia can't see the smirking look Ivan gives her, but she can hear it in his tone.

"Oh, come on. You're telling me that between stripteasing, feeling you up, sucking your face, swatting your ass and sharing your shower, your greatest concern over my potential walrus-ness would have been whether or not we fit into the shower stall together? I call your bluff, madam."

[Cordelia Sarafin Diego] "And I wouldn't be able to find your junk."

A beat.

"No es bueno."

[Ivan Press] "No es bueno at all," Ivan agrees very seriously.

"I'm going to get dressed," he adds, "and see about in-flight entertainment and dining. When you're done -- or, y'know, when you run out of hot water -- we'll get underway."

[Cordelia Sarafin Diego] Sure enough, Cordelia takes a long-assed time to shower, and she does run out of hot water before she finishes washing the conditioner out of her hair. From the other room, Ivan hears a barrage of words that he knows can't possibly be good, clean, wholesome words in Spanish. Until, finally, she utters, "FUCK! COLD! SHIT! JESUS! PUPPIES!"

Eventually, she comes out, and wring her hair out. It sounds like she dumped a bucket of water in the shower. She heads to go grab her clothes, holding up what she has "-I like these."

And gets dressed. There is no apology in her form- no shame in her body. No real modesty. Just getting dressed and toweling off, not in that order.

"What's for dinner?"

[Ivan Press] When Cordelia emerges, she finds her clothes -- both the new and the old -- laid out on the bed; Ivan stretched out beside it. He's fully dressed again, lean and dapper in jeans, in shirtsleeves, one hand tucked behind his head. The other sifts through what appears to be a menu, which he tosses Cordelia's way.

"Osso buco," he says, "or smoked swordfish, if seafood's more your thing. What sort of cussing is puppies?"

He gets up, then, matter-of-factedly going behind Cordelia to help her with buttons and zippers and the sort. One has to wonder how many others there were before -- and, more importantly, as Cordelia has already surmised -- how many others there will be after.

"Lovely," he pronounces when she's all dressed. Then he hands her glasses back to her with an exaggerated grimace. "Come on then. Let's buckle in for takeoff," and he sweeps the door back to the main cabin open.

[Cordelia Sarafin Diego] "Oooh, ossobuco, yay," she's really pretty easily pleased. Give her veal, cute clothes, and life is good. She pushes her hair over to one side, and is very patient with it all. He's a seasoned professional when it comes to putting women in expensive clothes.

He hands her back her glasses, exaggerated grimace, and she follows along. Dmitri did well. Got her the right underwear, the right shoes, the right size; Cordelia, truth be told, isn't used to dealing with clothes that really fit that she doesn't have to get taken in, taken up, taken down, and cinched in various forms and fashion.

Such is the life of a girl nearly six feet tall and as big around as a stripper pole.

"Next time," she tells him, as if to placate that pained expression, "I wear contacts. Better?"

[Ivan Press] Ivan's expression is comically surprised. Which probably means it's exaggerated. "Really? You're going to wear contacts?" He claps his hands over his heart, turning to walk backwards down the main cabin aisle. "Be still, my heart!"

Then he's showing her to one of the four large leather seats that line the forecabin; punching a button on the arm of his own to activate the cockpit intercom; informing the pilot that they were, in fact, ready for takeoff. The plane begins to taxi with a gentle bump, and Ivan clips his seatbelt shut.

"Can I ask you something?" he asks while the captain lines them up for takeoff. "Why don't you dress like this? I mean ... why do you make an effort to look dowdy?"

[Cordelia Sarafin Diego] "Dowdy. I don't know this word."

[Ivan Press] "Ugly," Ivan deadpans. "Homely. Like a fifty year old spinster."

[Cordelia Sarafin Diego] "Oh," she says, "hmmn."

There is a moment. She buckles in, and makes herself comfortable in the chair, "because... there are men who want glory. And fame. And chubby babies. And I am no more than that. I am more than desire and breeding..."

She stops.

"I don't want that."

[Ivan Press] Ivan doesn't look particularly astounded or surprised. As the plane makes another turn, then comes to a gentle rocking stop, the Ragabash nods.

"You know, I thought you'd say something like that."

The intercom overhead crackles: Mr. Press, we're cleared for takeoff. He raises a finger in a one moment, please gesture, punching the intercom button to reply, "Go ahead, cap'n." Then, turning back -- as the business jet's engines cycle up and as acceleration abruptly pushes them backwards in their plush seats, he goes on.

"There's a flaw in your plan, though. It's not your looks that attract them. It's your breeding. The ones that are fooled by your looks -- well, frankly, your family would never give someone like you up to a mere kin. Or a human. And the Garou, like myself: we can smell the breeding. And we don't care about looks, so long as you can spawn healthy cubs."

His eyebrows go up; utterly unrepentant. "Just telling you the truth," he concludes.

[Cordelia Sarafin Diego] "I have yet to get around that," she says. It's as though she's thought about this, and thought a lot about it. Like she's come up with plans and has only marginally managed to ward away the problem.

She hasn't, though. And at the end of the day, he's right- her family isn't stupid enough, or desperate enough, to just hand her off to kin.

She looks at him, and she cocks her head to the side. Her hair's drying in loose, spiral curls. Down and out. She reaches up, idly toying with the end of one drying curl. She looks... well, she has a look, and it doesn't translate.

"Is that bad?" trying to keep it in English.

[Ivan Press] "Is what bad, the truth?" Ivan replies. "Or that you'll be valued largely for your ability to produce healthy cubs?"

[Cordelia Sarafin Diego] "That I don't want to be largely valued for my ability to produce healthy cubs," she says. She does well with repeating exact phrases, "it is what it is. I'm not mad. I don't like it, but I'm not mad."

[Ivan Press] The floor abruptly lifts beneath them. That characteristic feeling of their stomachs dropping: they're airborne, and the runway noise falls away. Flaps shift in the wings. The jet banks eastward. New York City, 90 minutes.

Ivan, meanwhile, keeps his eyes on Cordelia. Considering how much they drank earlier; considering he was rather close to having it off with her in the shower not ten minutes ago, those eyes are remarkably clear now, and keen.

"What do you want to be valued for, then?" It's not really an answer.

[Cordelia Sarafin Diego] [this is me covering up insecurity with glib talking! Teehee! Manip+sub+PB, +2 diff- I'm DRUNK]
Dice Rolled:[ 8 d10 ] 3, 4, 6, 6, 7, 7, 9, 10 (Success x 2 at target 8)

[Ivan Press] [don't play a player! +1 diff - I'm drunk but I'm not DRUNK cuz I'm a werewolf and I'm Russian.]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 3, 4, 4, 5, 6, 6, 10 (Success x 1 at target 7)

[Ivan Press] [OH COME ON. +1 DIFF!]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 2, 3, 6, 9, 10, 10, 10 (Success x 4 at target 8)

[Cordelia Sarafin Diego] "For my charming wit, my astounding intellect, and ability to pole dance like a pro," she says. She grins at him, and her lips upturn but... well.. she's drunk. And not a werewolf. And not Russian. There are a lot of factors that are working against her brain to mouth filter. All things considered, she is a good liar. If she hadn't been drinking? What she said would have had infinitely more confiviction. That said, Cordelia-

Quite play to her potential.

All glib, playful talk aside, there she is. There's a bit of an edge there, something hiding. And she names off things that aren't entirely unreasonable. She wants to be known for her capability. She wants... What she left out was that she wanted an equal. And, at that moment, there is an awareness, though, that she can't have that. It's not possible.

As she'd said before: it is what it is.

[Ivan Press] "No, really." He's not the faintest bit fooled; not after a second. And if anything -- for once -- Ivan seems mildly irritated. He's being serious here. He's absolutely serious when he says, "What do you want to be valued for?"

[Cordelia Sarafin Diego] She sighs.

Shit.

"I want an equal, someone who won't take my bullshit."

[Ivan Press] "No no." Ivan sits up a little. The plane levels off; their stomachs rise, then settle. He unclips his seatbelt and turns to face her fully. "That's still not what I'm asking. I'm not asking what you want in a mate, Cordelia. I'm asking you: what do you want to be valued for? What do you want to contribute, that will be valued?

"Because here's the thing, Cordie. We're the last of our kind, and we're fighting a losing war. So we all have to give something or else we're worse than useless and we deserve to go extinct. For example, my contribution is supposed to be being a scout, an ambusher, and a devil's advocate. Ultimately, my contribution is supposed to be my life. That's my lot in life, what I'm born to do. If I want to be valued for something other than being a good scout, assassin, questioner-of-the-ways, and sacrificial lamb, then I better be damn good at doing something else.

"Now, you. You were born a kinswoman. Your default role is, unfortunately, popping babies out. But you're telling me that you don't want to just be valued as a mother-of-future-Garou. Okay, fair enough. So I'm asking you: what do you want to be valued for? What can you contribute to the Great Effin' Cause, other than healthy strapping babies? Because if you want to be seen as something other than a brood mare, well then, you better have something to give other than the fruits of your womb.

"Which, by the way, addresses your other point, too. If you want someone to consider you an equal, then you need to shell out an equivalent contribution to what he's going to give. See where I'm going with this?"

[Cordelia Sarafin Diego] [Psh, i'm not frustrated at all!]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 3, 4, 5, 9, 10 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Cordelia Sarafin Diego] "Oh!" and she seems to be following. She sees where he's going with this, "this is not going to translate correctly."

And she takes her sweet time making sure that she uses whatever words she has, "I want to act as a liason from other tribes to ours. We don't talk. We don't..." she is looking for a word, "do. People see our tribe, and there is... bad blood?"

She looks at him, like she isn't sure that this is precisely the word that she is looking for.

"I want to understand other tribes. Be... PR? Help make us more approachable. You... you... vosostros-you, are leaders. Es truth... but people don't know the people they're trying to lead. I want to be valued for being good PR. I'm... approachable. Not only that, but I can get into places garou can't. I can field social situations and-"

She heaves a displeased, frustrated sigh-

"Fuck, I need to learn English."

A beat.

"I have time. I have patience. I can research, buy, trade, fund, lie, wine, dine, endear. I can build connections."

Another beat.

[Ivan Press] This is perhaps the first time they've actually seen each other as anything more than passing amusements. This is certainly the first time Ivan has considered Cordelia as anything more than a slightly dorky, slightly airheaded ugly-duckling-waiting-to-become-a-starved-swan, and it might be just the slightest bit gratifying to see the look in Ivan's eyes shift from his usual gleam of ever-so-faintly-cutting humor to,

well,

something like genuine appreciation.

When she's finished, he's quiet a moment. Then he points two fingers at her. "Now that," he says softly, "is actually a goal worth pursuing, and probably more worthwhile than pumping out half a dozen squalling brats. Because you're damn right that there's all sorts of bad blood between us and the other tribes, and that's going to be the status quo so long as idiots like Matthieu are running around barking about our inborn racial superiority. Jesus, you would've thought Hitler trampling Paris would've taught his branch of the family about that.

"I'd like to help you, Cordelia. If you want me to try to set you up with meetings with the Garou of other tribes, I'll be happy to oblige. If you want me to be a touchstone within the Fangs, I'll be happy to relay on the word to our illustrious elder. Anything else: you let me know, and I'll see what I can do.

"But a word of advice? Learn English fast. You're not going to convince the plebes you're out to make friends if you can't even speak their language. And stop trying to pretend to be an ugly, unpopular little geek. Your personality will win people over, even if they're not a big fan of the Fangs. But pretending not to be a spoiled little blueblooded beauty? That's just going to make them think you're condescending to them."

[Cordelia Sarafin Diego] It's very hard to say you aren't spoiled when you maintain an apartment in the nice part of town, and don't even bother to live in it. That apartment has furniture. Nice furniture. Not things she would buy, but things that were gifted to her. It has a nice view. It has a dine in kitchen. It's decorated for living alone.


Instead? She lives in a room. Also, alone, but she spends time sitting in the common areas. Occasionally conversing with people. Mostly, she's on the southside, dealing with whatever friends she has there. But here she is, relaying how she wants to be valued, and for once it seems like a good goal. Noble motivations, something worth actually pursuing.

He says he's like to help her, and she smiles. It's not overly excited, overeagerness, but a genuine expression of oh my god, you have no idea how much easier you've offered to make my life.

"I would like your help," she tells him. More than a partner in debauchery at the moment, "and I will keep you informed. I will need the help... I don't know how to read Katherine."

Which is odd, becuase she and Katherine speak the same language. The words aren't what gets in the way.

But we digress, and she listens to Ivan, because... well... He's right. She needed to learn English, for one, and she needed to stop hiding behind a facade that really wasn't entirely true. She has things going for her, and could very well be working against herself. No, strike that, she is working against herself.

"Point," she tells him. Further proof that she needs to learn English. Quickly.

[Ivan Press] "I," Ivan says, "have no idea how to read Katherine, myself. But if that speech she gave at the meeting was any indication -- oh wait, you weren't there tonight. Well; she gave a grand speech about unity with the other tribes, etcetera etcetera. Fabienne and Matthieu looked like they wanted to shit bricks. But she sounds like she'd be all over your liaison-to-the-plebes idea."

He thinks for a moment.

"Want me to broach the topic with her? Or would you prefer to do it yourself?"

[Cordelia Sarafin Diego] "I can talk to her," she says, "we both speak French."

She shrugs and then unbuckles her seatbelt. Cordelia crosses her legs and straightens up a little. She is entirely too comfortable on the plane, but we digress. She looks up, to the left, and thinks it over.

"Do you think Mathieu and Fabienne would give me difficulties?"

[Ivan Press] "No. They don't own you. They don't lead the tribe. Get Kate on board and they can't say a word, can they?" Ivan stands, then. "No stewardesses on this flight," he explains, and nods toward the galley. "I'm going to go heat up our midnight snacks.

"No more booze when we get on the ground," he adds. "I don't want you upchucking on the way back."

[Cordelia Sarafin Diego] All she can do, really, at that point is to smile at him. It's pleased, genuinely so. When she sobers up and remembers whatever it was they said, she'll be more pleased, but for now? There is the momentary triumph of her plans not going awry. But then?

No Stewardesses on board.
"Awwww," she says. Disappointed.

No more booze when we get on the ground, I don't want you upchucking on the way back
"Awwwww!" she says. With fervor.

[Ivan Press] Ivan grins over his shoulder at her, on his way to the small cramped little galley at the fore of the cabin. "Well, I suppose you could also drink so much that you upchuck before you get back on my dad's jet. That would work too."

Then he's in the galley, and Cordelia is treated to that rarest of sights: Ivan serving someone else. Namely, her. He gets their dinner trays out of the refrigerated storage. Over the bartop, she can see him puzzling visibly over the controls of the onboard oven. Then he seems to have it. There's some beeping. Some humming. A door opens and shuts. More beeping, and then he steps back to wait.

[Cordelia Sarafin Diego] She can't be the first, and certainly not the last, but being served is always... nice. She perks up, like she was getting milk-and-cookies instead of... you know.. veal. It is an obvious, simple pleasure.

"I like keeping my options open," she informs him, "I do not want to upchuck on padre's jet. I would have to send an apology card."

[Ivan Press] This makes Ivan laugh. The smell of osso buco -- albeit reheated osso buco -- begins to fill the small cabin as he leans against the counter, chatting with her over the bar. Definitely his addition; one doubts Mr. Kiril Press is the sort to indulge in that sort of thing.

"Well, if you really did upchuck on 'padre's' jet on the way home, we could always just turn the plane around, and then you could apologize in person. My parents live on the Upper East Side. We're not going to pay them a visit tonight, though."

[Cordelia Sarafin Diego] "Good," she insists, "because I don't want to meet your parents in someone else's panties."

She seems so very serious about that fact, except, of course, she does laugh at it.

"You need to come to Madrid. Es fun. Great night clubs. I wonder how New York City compares."

[Ivan Press] "If we refuel in LaGuardia," and this is how you know they're Fangs. This is how you know they are utterly, obscenely overprivileged little scions of the princely tribe, "we could be in Madrid by early afternoon, local time."

He comes out of the galley, handing her a tray of food. It's not your average jet plane fare. Reheated or not, it looks and smells -- and tastes -- like something out one of the finest restaurants in the city. It probably is, for that matter.

A glint of something rather like mischief in his eye, "Do you want to?"

[Cordelia Sarafin Diego] "Ugh," she says, "if we go, I would have to deal with Inez. And her pack. No es fucking bueno."

she's still a bit intoxicated, so using the word fuck in connection with her sister Inez makes her laugh. She takes her tray and looks immediately pleased. Even reheated, this is good. Better than good, it looks, and smells, fabulous.

"Let's save Madrid for later. I can be sure not to warn my family I'm coming."

[Ivan Press] Ivan comes to sit across from Cordelia this time, unabashedly putting his feet up on her seat, alongside her thigh. "Who's Inez?" he asks, cheerfully ignorant.

[Cordelia Sarafin Diego] In turn, she scoots over some so his legs have a bit more room, but doesn't make any attempt to move them away from her thigh. It's like this is the most normal, natural thing in the world.

"My oldest sister," she says, "I'm one of five kids."

[Ivan Press] "Wow." Ivan digs in: osso buco on rice pilaf, garnished with a few hints at greenery and vegetation on the sides. Ivan, like most Garou, totally ignores the greens. He eats the rice, though, if only because it sets off the melt-in-your-mouth tenderness of the veal. "I'm an only child. Which is why I fuck so many women, you know. I want to make sure my parents have plenty of bastards to choose from when they legitimize one as my heir."

That's utter bullshit. He doesn't even bother to make that lie believable -- and Cordelia knows, if nothing else, that he could make it believable. He could make it airtight.

"So, this Inez. Is she hot? I could dig an older woman." And he grins.

[Cordelia Sarafin Diego] "I.. wait.. what? I guess? She's a philodox with tetas the size of grapefruit, though. If you're into angry lawgivers."

She looks at him in an expression that just radiates fake indignation. She looks shocked, and in turn, as punishment, leans forward and tries to steal a tomato. She isn't having much luck.

"Stop being so far away," she half grumbles. Cordelia eventually gives up, realizing that she doesn't want to lean far enough to steal his greenery. Which is, of course, the first thing she eats. Unlike garou, she seems to have a healthy appreciation of vegetables.

[Ivan Press] "Oh my god, a Philodox." Ivan's face is a perfect mockery of terror. "Never mind. I never asked. I definitely don't want to hear about a Philodox's tetas."

He pushes his plate toward her a bit, letting her spear a few tomatoes. "I'm not the one that's far away," he returns, never one to miss an opportunity. "You could totally pick your pretty self up and come sit on my lap."

[Cordelia Sarafin Diego] "They're huge," she replies, if only with the tiniest bit of sibling jealousy. As Ivan was aware, Cordelia was not much in the boob department. She definitely got skipped when it came to being substantial up top. Some children who are kin resent their trueborn siblings for being True, or for having more opportunities. Oh no, not Cordelia. She only envied her sister for having enormous tits.

Never one to miss an opportunity, she got her happy little self up and headed over. There was some readjustment to be done, of course, balancing her tray, his tray, how the Hell she was going to cut anything when she was sitting on his lap. That jazz. Cordelia stabs a few tomatoes, opos one into her mouth and swallows. The other two are rested comfortably on her tray and are exchanged for a couple bites of meat. One is skewed, perhaps too gleefully, with a stacatto thwap of her form. Or whatever sound meat make when you stabbed it. She held it up and looked at him.

"Open up," she told him.

"Please and thank you."

[Ivan Press] Ivan holds a finger up. "If we hit turbulence and that fork ends up in my throat, clubbing is so canceled." Then he obediently opens up.

[Cordelia Sarafin Diego] "Uh, yeahduh," she says.

And pops veal into his mouth. Then, retrieves her fork and continues picking at vegetables and the occasional bite of meat. Which... half the time, ends up in his mouth instead of hers.

[Ivan Press] Well, Ivan could get used to this. A lapful of passably-pretty-girl who was feeding him ... well, not grapes, but veal. Even better, if you ask him. He's quite content to sit back and open his mouth now and then for a morsel. Sometimes she misses. There's a few foodstains on his shirt by the time they're done. He doesn't mind. Where they're going, it'll be dark. And crowded. And loud.

Cordelia is just setting the emptied plates aside when their ears pop. The plane is decidedly nose-down now; outside the windows, the dark expanses of the northeast have given way to the scintillating brilliance of the city of cities -- New York, Manhattan Island, glowing in the post-midnight darkness like a million jewels scattered over velvet. Or some such poetic metaphor, anyway.

"Sometimes I really miss New York," Ivan comments, sounding just a touch homesick for a moment. The Ragabash reaches to buckle the seatbelt around the both of them; afterward, his arms settle easily around Cordelia's waist like a second seatbelt. "There's really no other city like it anywhere."

His pilot comes on over the intercom: "We'll be disembarking in about 15 minutes, sir."

[Cordelia Sarafin Diego] Overall, it's not an entirely unpleasant experience. She could sit and chill out on his lap all day, which is really just fine with her, and she could steal his tomatoes and bites of rice pilaf and all she had to do was trade it for veal, which wasn't too bad of a trade. Her non-meats disappeared much faster than the actual entree, despite the fact that she knows you're supposed to eat around the plate. Sometimes she misses, and apologizes. Other times, she mises and says ohshit, or tiny puppies, or something of that vein and in that regard.

They're going down, and her ears pop. She blinks those big blue eyes, and leans back into Ivan as she watches teh lights come up. Jewels. Fireflies, Streetlights, New York. She watches the lights come into focus, glitter and twinkle like beautiful cliches as they start their journey to the city, to a place where they're invariably going to dance, shout, and rock out until last call.

"Why did you come to Chicago?" she asks. It's a passing question, really, but a genuine one. He sounds homesick, almost. It stays, but then is gone. If he answers, then he answers. If he doesn't? Well, then she doesn't feel a need to press.

In fifteen minutes, they disembark.

The flight had been relatively uneventful, all things considered. Landing and disembarking is no different. Cordelia looks at New York City like it is a place to be marvelled at. For a second, for a minute, for a full fifteen she fogets that wonder isn't becoming, that it's somehow uncool to be in awe of New York City. She is, anyway. If she's going to wear those glasses, she doesn't need to worry about lookoing at lights like they're worth millions, or looking at streets like they lead to Rome.

All said and done, Ivan Press knows the best places to party. Serves as a decent enough tourguide. True to form they go somewhere dark, where the music is loud and there's glitter on the occasional body, which transfers all too easily from person to person. Maybe they dance together, maybe they don't. Cordelia doesn't indicate that she feels it necessary to be attached to his hip the whole time.

She dances like she could choreograph an R&B video, but it's redundant to say Cordelia can dance.

She has a preference for redheads. But we knew that, too.

They dance. and the hours tick by, they go places. They do things and Things, or maybe nothing at all. Maybe he shows her New York City. Hell, maybe they grab cheap assed Chinese food from a man who has more in common with the little displaced blonde than either of them realize, though it seems unlikely. But then again, who knows. Maybe Ivan is the random-cart-food kind of person. Eventually, though, they make it back to the plane.

She even keeps all her clothes on, this time, though she has some girl's number written on the inside of her forearm. New Jersey area code.