A Particular Taste [Cosette]

[Jesse Fforde]

--The following transcript was a live chat roleplay--

<Cosette> The auburn-haired woman sat quietly at a corner table, texting a few of her girlfriends who were 'on the way' or 'running late.' She had to smile to herself - of course they were. Never one to be late herself, Cosette had arrived at the tiny club just in time to watch the opening band setting up and soundchecking their equipment, snagging an excellent seat for them in the process. She sighed and set her phone down on the table before picking up her drink to take a small sip. No sense getting ahead of them on the intoxication front, either, she supposed. Besides, she wasn't really one to enjoy more than the gentlest of buzzes. Control was important, and she didn't have the requisite patience for the inevitable hangover the next day, either.

The plans had been set over a week ago - a friend of a friend's band was playing and so she and a couple others had arranged to attend, even if this sort of scene wasn't quite her thing. Grungy, garage-style rock was fun, but the dingy little club only served cheap beer and mid-level liquor, with not much of a variety. She wrinkled her nose - she was no snob, but the surest way to that unwanted hangover was cheap booze and too much of it, she knew. So, even though she was bored for the time being, she would pace herself until her friends would finally arrive, hopefully in time to see the band they had come to watch in the first place.

There are several different types of blood that Jesse enjoys. It’s no secret that his preference is for the blood of virgins. There’s something innocent about it; a tart sweetness that comes moderately and mostly untainted. Even Grey knows of this preference, and has even gone out of her way to go and find him a bottle of the stuff from Ariadne’s winery. She doesn’t seem to care, or judge him for his tastes, so he continues to hunt for the perfect drop. It’s a vain quest, perhaps, as no blood could ever quite stack up to that of Grey’s, when he had first met her. But a man can only try.


<Jesse Fforde> Jesse does not go hunting for the younger virgins, either, even though they’re the most common. As questionable as Jesse’s morals may be, he’s no cradle snatcher, and drinking the blood of—killing—an underage girl just seems… ungentlemanly. There’s a thrill in the hunt, however, for a woman of twenty-one or over. Of trying to figure out just by looking at her whether she has felt the touch of a man. Sometimes he gets it wrong. Regardless, he haunts the odd small pubs and clubs, looking for women who meet his criteria—and wanting to have a good time simultaneously.

This means that Jesse ends up in the lower-grade grunge clubs, and tonight he finds himself waiting for a band to start. He hangs by the bar. The best way to lure a woman is to buy her a drink. He leans back, waiting as the place fills up. As he’s scouring the crowd for his prey, however, he spots a familiar face. It doesn’t take long for him to slip through the milling bodies until he has reached her booth. He slides in beside Cosette, and says nothing. As if she’s there waiting just for him.

[Cosette (DELETED 4759)]

--The following transcript was a live chat roleplay--



<Cosette> Cosette's thoughts were wandering, twisting through the hills and valleys within her head. So much was there, jumbled, that she hadn't had a proper think upon - like that damned sketch from the artist guy, Jesse, from a few weeks back. Work, the museum internship, and school had kept her away from nearly everything fun; it was an odd night off and of all the times she didn't want to think, this would be a definite one. But her mind crept that way anyway, back over the strange depiction of what she could only assume was herself. At first glance, and many others since then, the picture spoke deeply of all the traits she had thought were well-hidden: a near-innocence about life, even with her strong sense of realism.

Vulnerability that belied the independent streak. Her parents often said the City was no place for a young woman all on her own, but Cosette had flown in the face of their reason and done as she wished anyway. Maybe they were right; there were some days and nights she felt incredibly alone, but she'd never once spoken such a thing out loud. Yet somehow, this guy she barely knew had seen it within her and set it to paper.

Jesse. Jesse Fforde.

Her mouth set in a firm line after she took another sip of her Jack and coke. It would have been an interesting experience had that skin-crawling sensation not been present almost all the way throughout. One that renewed itself as she thought more upon the guy with a handsome face and a large number of tattoos...

And then she looked up. And tried hard not to startle, but was certain she failed miserably as her fingers clutched at her glass and her eyes flew wide. There he was, in the flesh, silent as smoke and somehow sitting in her booth before she ever noticed. Still, she swallowed hard as she recovered and then offered him a smile before it turned into more of a smirk and her features fell into more of a relaxed pose. "Well hello, Mr. Fforde. Nice to see you again. Here to see the band?"


<Jesse Fforde> The band is nearly ready to go, by the looks of it. Jesse’s not paying much attention to his female companion to begin with, but when she speaks he turns to her as if he’s been there all along. As if they are just two friends who’d settled into a companionable silence which has now been broken. He shrugs his shoulders, and gives a vague nod. He’s gone back to his staring. There are things that he’d seen in Cosette, but she’s one that he can’t quite figure out. Virgin, or not? Maybe he’ll have a better shot at figuring it out if given more conversation. So, he quits trying to figure it out by letting his eyes bore into hers, and clears his throat.

“Sure. I hear they’re okay,” he says. He has heard no such thing; he just knows this place is good for live bands and they usually pick a pretty good line-up. Normally a line-up that appeals to the younger set of Harper Rockians, and thus those that match Jesse’s specific tastes. He doesn’t turn back to the stage; his eyes linger at Cosette’s neck for a second or three, and the vein pulsing there, before returning to her face. If only he could smell it on them. If only it were that easy…

“How’s the museum, Ms. Lemaire? Have you figured out the answer to human chaos yet?” he asks, recalling their first conversation. They hadn’t really been looking for an answer. But then, Jesse’s never been a very good conversationalist—especially given the fact that ‘conversation’ is a thing he only started dabbling in about a year ago.

[Cosette (DELETED 4759)]

--The following transcript was a live chat roleplay--

<Cosette> The girl raised a brow as he finally broke off the staring, something she didn't think she'd ever get used to. She swallowed hard, wondering what he found so interesting about her because for all appearances, Cosette lived a pretty boring life. She had striking features, sure; maybe not traditionally attractive but she knew how to play up her best assets. She'd had boyfriends, some more serious than others. But aside from the little he knew about her and the even less she knew about him, she could think of no good reason for the staring, except that he was perhaps a little... off. She settled back in her seat and took another sip of her drink, eyeing him all the while.

That was funny; the band had never played a gig before and as far as she knew they weren't very well known, but Cosette didn't say anything. Whatever had brought him here, to this club and to her table, she didn't know, but it was a public place and her friends were shortly on their way. There really wasn't a safer place she could be.

Then there it was again. Ms. LeMaire. She simply shook her head and flashed him a grin. "Cosette, please." was all she said at first until she twirled the little plastic stirrer still in her glass and regarded him for another moment. "The museum is as peaceful as ever. As for human chaos.... if I figured the answer out to that, I certainly wouldn't be sitting here right now. And you? How has your art been coming along?


<Jesse Fforde> He wonders why she wouldn’t be here, had she answered such a question. Would she be moving around in vast halls with people dressed in cocktail dresses and suits sipping champagne from thin glasses and being bathed in light that is artificial, but which somehow seems more heavenly than heaven? Would she become one of the elite, one of those rare human beings who seem to know too much and who get criticised for it? Because, of course, there are things that humans have figured out in the past. Huge things, groundbreaking things, but things that are too large for the simple minds of the plebeians. They never really got the acclaim they deserved. Maybe they did better in death.

Maybe Cosette would do better in death. The idea rises and falls within Jesse’s mind and he wishes he had a drink, now, so that he might lift it to his lips and use it as a distraction from that tide within him. That urge, that simple desire to kill. And sometimes to bring back to life. That’s the kicker, isn’t it? Instead, he clears his throat and shrugs.

“The art is always there. One of the things that has never failed me,” he says with an odd kind of grin. Maybe bitter? “What if I prefer ‘Ms Lemaire’?”


<Cosette> That long beat of silence again. One quiet enough, even in the surrounding chaos of a mass of people, to practically hear her own heart beating in her ears. Or was that that telltale, undeniable trickle of fear again? Cosette didn't know, but it was enough to have her lifting her drink to her lips once more, even though she didn't take such a large swallow as she might have otherwise done. Best to keep her head about her, some tiny part of her mind whispered.

And then, without knowing at first, she finally realized she hadn't lifted her gaze from him once; maybe subconsciously, she was giving him the same sort of sizing up he seemed to be giving her. He was a hard one to read, she'd noted that before. But now, there in the slowly overcrowding club, tucked in a booth, it seemed almost like a little bubble. Far more private than even the empty museum wing had been. And there - just then, when he spoke of his art - she could see the flash of... something... in his gaze. Longing, perhaps? Or was it something else?

She cleared her throat and shifted in her seat; he had a way of speaking that got through even the noisiest of moments and she wondered to herself how he was able to hear her. But he wasn't having any problem that she could tell, so she kept up her usual volume when she finally replied.

"You're lucky, you know. Artists' block is every bit as common as writer's, and as frustrating. Or so I hear," she said with a slight teasing tone to her voice. She smiled back a moment. "Well... if you prefer that, then I suppose its your prerogative to use it, Mr. Fforde. Whatever I happen to think." She gave a wink to say she was kidding... sort of... and returned her attention to her drink for a moment.


<Jesse Fforde> It’s not much of a bubble for Jesse. Not at all. If he were one of those with the ability to manipulate the shadows, or even if he were a Mystic, able to feed from a human without ever being seen, he might have done it. He might have slid around to Cosette’s side of the booth. Might have wrapped his arm around her to that his palm could cut off any scream that she might make. Could sink his teeth into that slender neck of hers, feel the hot rush of blood over his tongue. That’s one way to find out if it’s virginal blood, right? Taste it.

He finds himself swallowing, the Adam’s Apple bobbing uselessly in his throat. He finds it interesting that the woman now holds his gaze, where previously she hadn’t. Jesse is not a shy man. The majority of the time he’s far too confident. So confident as to be called cocky; apparently so serious as to be called condescending. But that’s okay; he wears that accusation like a robe, now, because why not? He’s not going to step down and start becoming the gentleman now. What reason is there?

“I quite like Mr. Fforde,” he says, contrary to his belief that he is no gentleman. No harm in pretending. “Are you meeting someone?” he asks abruptly. He could talk about what inspires him; could tell her that there’s no such thing as Artist’s block and it’s all just mind over matter. But he’s never been a grand conversationalist, especially if the topic is himself. Far better to turn the attention on the other—and in the process, figure out some kind of game plan.

<Cosette> She still couldn't get a read on him. The prior smile had been more genuine than some of the others he'd flashed, sure, but it was still veiled at best. Not really giving her anything more to go on than that which she already knew - he adored his art, as did most artists. Even if it was in secret, like some of them, because artists could be their own worst critics. Even the ones with the large, flamboyant egos. It was like some dirty little secret they couldn't help but share; Cosette had been told more than once that she had the sort of face and personality that made a person want to share his deepest thoughts. Spill his guts. Tell all of his darkest secrets and fears. It wasn't a fun position to be in when she found herself confronted, though it was interesting most of the time. And she supposed, through the persistent creepy feeling, that was what she found most refreshing about Jesse. He hadn't told her much of anything. She could analyze and take apart the words of the philosophical discussion that had gotten her blood rushing. Or she could dismantle everything that didn't get said. But he would remain a mystery, one that she had an itch to solve.

She flashed him a half-smile. Quite liked Mister Fforde indeed. She could see that the good-natured teasing in return didn't have quite the same effect on him, which was fine by her. A hand slid to half cup her cheek, half slide some errant locks away from her face. "Mhm. A few friends are joining me to see these guys. It's their first gig," she added pointedly, with a slight rise to her brow.


<Jesse Fforde> Jesse nods, keeping his disappointment masked. Of course she’s meeting friends. Why shouldn’t she be? Probably a gaggle of women that she could not be extracted from; his meal would have to be found elsewhere. Loners are always best—or those who happen to be the least lucky of a pair of girls. The one who’s left behind when the friend manages to hook up. That woman is the least lucky in many ways, if Jesse’s the one to swoop her up off her feet. A small smile dances over his lips; one day he’ll have to bring Grey with him, so that she can see his particular brand of hunt. You don’t get virginal women alone by stalking them. There’s flirting involved.

A thought entirely unrelated to their topic of conversation, however, and the smile would of course help to mask the disappointment. Maybe Ms Lemaire is not meant to be a victim. Which returns Jesse to his errant stream of thought. He can’t seem to focus on what he wants. Sometimes he thinks what he really wants is to lock all the doors and slaughter every single person with a beating heart. That just would not do, however.

He arches a brow and makes no mention of his reasons for being here; that Cosette might know the band by association, that it’s their first time, that Jesse could not have heard of their live ability—he does not seem to care if she has caught him out in a lie, and he’s hardly going to strive to explain himself.

“And you thought you should come early to study the crowd? Anthropologist always at work?” he asks. He had, for a while, turned his attention back to the crowd. Of course he’s not going to stick around once Cosette’s friends arrive. He’ll slip into the crowd. Find some other victim. Maybe go elsewhere—probably not best to hunt now that he’s talked to someone who’ll remember him. But now his arched brow turns back to Cosette, resuming his trademark stare.

[Jesse Fforde]

--The following transcript was a live chat roleplay--

<Cosette> She noted he didn’t say anything about her friends soon to be turning up. Curiouser and curiouser, she thought to herself. Most guys either got quiet or got disappointed over interfering friends because they had some level of interest in one person in particular; Cosette hadn’t had much experience in that department but it was pretty clear to see this guy, this Jesse - good looking and interested as he seemed to be - was not really in the market for a girlfriend. Which presented the bigger question - why such an interest in her, in cornering her alone as he seemed to be doing with increasing frequency? It could have been a coincidence, she supposed, that he was in the same club she had visited, or it could have been something more, like her instincts were constantly whispering to her. Her brow furrowed slightly as she looked up at him, before fashioning a reply.

“Not exactly, though crowd watching is an excellent past time,” she said. “More like, I’m perpetually early or on time, and my friends are perpetually late.” She shrugged her shoulders and flashed a grin and a wave at the bassist, the one person in the band she actually did know, before turning her full attention back to the man beside her. “And what about you? Meeting anyone here? If not, why don’t you join me?”

The words were out before she could stop herself, but as repelled as she was, Cosette also found herself wanting to know more. Her curiosity nearly always got the best of her, but it almost always paid off, she’d found.


<Jesse Fforde> Jesse thinks about it, and outwardly cringes. Of course, when he thinks about a group of friends--especially where a female is concerned--he imagines a gaggle of giggling imbeciles who ask too many questions and expect happiness and good times every second of every minutes. Of course, Cosette might not be the type to keep such friends, but Jesse’s not sure whether he wants to wait and find out. A slow smile curls the corners of his lips as he turns his attention back to his companion.

“I could join you. Or, I could sit over there,” he says, gesturing to the bar, “And watch you. From afar,” he says. Yeah, it sounds creepy. It sounds stalkerish. But that doesn’t seem to phase Jesse, and nor does he try to laugh it off as a joke. He keeps a straight face, perhaps to see how Cosette will react. Or maybe he’s really just not joking at all. He’s not entirely sure himself.

“Maybe I always wanted to be a … socio-anthropologist,” he says, not even sure whether that’s a thing. But it sounds like a thing. “And I’m here only to do a little research,” he says. It’s not too far from the truth. Though the kind of research he does is never going to be included in any kind of paper or published in any kind of journal. No way. How to spot a virgin in the middle of a crowded room. There’s only a certain kind of demographic who’ll read that one, and it’s the exact kind of demographic that would buy Playboy.

He doesn’t answer the questions outright. When has Jesse ever answered questions properly?


<Cosette> She couldn’t help herself. A smirk melted into a smile, and that soon enough melted into a laugh. One tinted with incredulity and surprise, but a genuine laugh all the same. Perhaps it was because Cosette could almost see the man doing just that, sitting across the way and watching her and her gaggle of friends. Maybe he was trying to gauge her further by trying to figure out what sort of company she kept (which wasn’t very accurate in her opinion - her girlfriends, intelligent and ambitious as they were, could be hilarious but they certainly came off as a group of giggling, twittering ninnies on occasion), or maybe he was simply a creep at heart. She didn’t know, but it didn’t quite seem to fit with what she knew so far.

He had too much depth, for starters. Most artists did, genuine ones, anyway, and he had so far proven that to be the case in their few conversations thus far. But that didn’t mean he didn’t exhibit a certain level of creep, either. She slid her chin to rest on a hand as she eyed him up. “Now what could you possibly gain from watching rather than interacting?” she asked, teasing but also with a note of serious in her tone. She could play this game, play almost dumb as she asked obvious questions. He was every bit as good at dodging them, at any rate.

“What sort of research?” she asked, finally, getting around to an even more obvious question, brows slightly raised in curiosity.


<Jesse Fforde> “It’s not so much about what I could gain by staying away but what I could possibly lose if I were to stick around,” he says, voice modulated in an evenly toned observation, though he is forced to clear his throat at the end of the sentence. A throat that is constantly dry and thirsting, and thus sometimes huskier than usual. He doesn’t elaborate--not because he knows his assumptions could possibly be insulting, but because he’s not one to generally elaborate things. He likes to leave them hanging, dangling like bait.

As she asks what kind of research, Jesse smirks and gives a slow shrug of the shoulder. There’s a hint of a gleam to his eyes--a throw back, maybe, to a time when he was carefree and weightless. There is a perk to having one’s voice back. These kinds of witty conversations can be fun, and it’s something that he had missed out on. Instead, he’d had a perfectly good excuse to sit and never say a word. To communicate his answer via facial expression alone. Which, honestly, had been equally as fun. But c’est la vie.

“Women are notoriously hard to figure out. Didn’t you know? It’s best to catch them when the pride are all together. You can see how the dynamic suddenly shifts and, where she might be one person when by herself, she’ll be a completely different one when with other people,” he says. The smirk a fixture upon his lips.


<Cosette> “I like to think I’m my own sort of woman, no matter who I happen to be keeping company with at the time,” she said matter of factly with a rise to her brow. She could have taken whatever implied offense there might be in his prior statement, but she already knew that she’d been accused of being too aloof before; part of the group and yet, not entirely caught up in it, either. It wasn’t entirely off to suggest she steered clear of being the typical sort of chameleon that some women became based upon whom they socialized with or dated. No, she was herself and she liked it to stay that way, in all situations. To be anything else seemed... well. Untruthful.

She liked that gleam in his eyes, she found. The color itself was interesting, different. But the gleam was new. He’d always seemed wary to her, giving his gaze a hooded quality that lent him an air of tortured mystery. This was a refreshing, almost playful surprise, one she found extremely pleasant. Despite his words, teasing though they might be, it made him more approachable all of a sudden. Less of a creep. And it made her more comfortable by inches, to the point she found herself easily returning the smirk on his lips.

“Besides. I don’t find it quite fair to judge who a person is based upon her friends or acquaintances, even a little. Especially from afar. My friends might sometimes come off as twits when they get a few drinks in them, but they’re all smart, work hard, and earn what they want. They’re good people. Yet that doesn’t mean I’m going to get trashed right along with them, or act impulsively after a few myself.” She shrugged, her tone neutral if matter of fact once more. She wasn’t offended, not by any means. If anything, she found the sort of judgemental attitude, playful though it may be, to be yet another normal facet to the male sitting beside her.


<Jesse Fforde> “Ah, but I didn’t say I was judging you by your friends, I said I’d be judging you on who you became when you’re around them,” he says, settling into the chair by stages, though he’d no doubt get up and leave as soon as said friends arrive. Maybe he’s a skittish type--the kind who prefers singular conversations to group settings. Not scared, or squeamish by the thought. But simply a man who sticks to his preferences. He has no interest in getting to know new people, not really. Maybe that’s why he and Micah butt heads so much. Maybe that’s why he always seems to be in the **** for something he hasn’t done. It doesn’t come naturally, this socialising thing. He never did do it as a spontaneous activity to pass the time--he always had some kind of goal.

Tonight’s goal has become a flimsy thing, morphing and changing as the night progresses. Where he’d come to find a meal, now said meal is probably not such a great idea. Now it has become about something different. Something that Jesse chooses not to dwell on. That he instead chooses to drift from, to let the night and this particular… acquaintance take on whatever shape it wants to adopt.

“People, I have found, like to think they know who they are, but generally what they say conflicts with what they are. I’m sure you understand that a good researcher should not just take your word for it. But instead take into account your own thoughts, but continue to observe regardless,” he says, sinking into the conversation as if it were a second skin.

“Also - I wouldn’t judge you if you chose to get trashed. Getting trashed can be fun, given the right time and place,” he adds, still smiling that peculiar smile.



<Cosette> “Quite right,” she replied. “I’d question your reasoning ability if you simply took my word for something.” Cosette winked and sat back, thinking his words over some more. Her lips pulled up in something of an amused frown when he spoke of drinking too much. “Mmm, but see, that’s where we don’t agree. I don’t like feeling out of control. A few drinks, fine. But when I feel it starting to go beyond a buzz, that’s when I’ve had enough.” She shrugged slightly, twirling her Jack and Coke around the table a bit before she looked at him again.

“I’m mostly certain, if you stayed and observed from here or afar, you’d find I’m right, though,” she said with a playful grin as she lifted her glass to sip at her drink. But just as she was setting it down, said gaggle of friends filtered into the club, scanning the room. She waved once at them to let them know where she was and turned back to Jesse with a pointed grin.

“Well. Now or never, Mr. Fforde,” she said with a rise to her brows. Meaning, she was sure he’d understand, that he was about to be cornered, given the once-over, and possible the third degree if her friends were feeling frisky. Which, by the looks of them, she imagined they were.


<Jesse Fforde> Jesse’s expression remains impassive. There’s nothing more that he’d love than to be able to swallow a few buckets of alcohol and let loose for a while. To shake off all inhibitions. To be able to forget, and to act on impulse. But then, to do so these days would be dangerous. Jesse’s impulses are violent things and he’d no doubt leave a whole bunch of dead and mangled bodies in his wake. Mangled, not because he takes pleasure in mangling, but simply because his thirst would leave no other choice in the matter.

Of course he mentions none of this to Cosette. He doesn’t lament about his inability to drink, nor on how he wished he could have one. He could come across as a recovering alcoholic, but why should he do that? Why should he give any cause to raise any questions at all?

Instead, he lets the subject drop; and rightly so, too. Cosette waves and Jesse is made aware of her gathering friends. Without hesitation, Jesse stands. There’s no choice in the matter. He’s not sticking around to be questioned. Perhaps if his mood were riper, he might have a bit of fun with it. But, his mood is not the kind that will allow mingling with too-cheerful women. He turns back to Cosette.

“I’ll be at the bar,” he says. Whether or not that means he actually intends to stick around and watch, he does not say. Instead, he winks.

“I’m sure I’ll see you around, Ms. Lemaire,” he says, saluting her as a goodbye before wandering off toward the bar. He nods to the gaggle of friends as he passes by them, that smirk still lingering on his lips. They don’t get too close, of course. They never do.


<Cosette> She watched him for a long moment before he smoothly rose to his feet and took his leave. She didn’t think her group of friends was that intimidating but they were certainly a handful en masse. She couldn’t blame him for using her words as an opportunity to take off, not really, when she considered what she might do in his position.

A slow smirk crossed her lips, one that stayed put even after she called back: “I’m sure you will, Mr. Fforde,” with a playful lilt to her tone, just before her friends finally joined her, making eyes at the good-looking stranger who retreated quickly to the bar, as promised. Yet through all the inevitable questions, Cosette remained mostly silent, giving only vague, perfunctory answers, even as her gaze fell away when he blended back in with the crowd. She’d noticed the way her small group of friends almost parted like the Red Sea when he passed, and it wasn’t simply to let him by. Her brow furrowed as she thought it over some more: clearly, she wasn’t the only one affected by whatever strange thing there was about him.

Still, eventually lulled by the babble of females, the good-natured teasing about picking up strange men at bars, and the rest of her drink and the start of a new one, Cosette tried to push her attention back toward her friends, and the sounds of the band warming up. But there was no doubt he’d shaken her up a bit, making her feel torn between caring what he thought, and wondering why it mattered at all.