Independent, private, & selective Celeste Toussant from the Fat Vampire / Vampire Maurice series. Combination canon & headcanon-based portrayal with canon divergence set after book 2. Loved by Ellie. 27. She / Her.
A STUDY IN: the strength of gentleness, a love that transcends time, fiercely protecting what is yours, the light in the darkness, life and death and rebirth, the inherent value in every individual, standing up for your beliefs against all odds, the gray morality of survival, remaining unchanged in an ever-changing world, and confronting one’s own inner demons.
IMPORTANT LINKS: carrd. memes. opens. wishlist. permanent starter call. promo. more info.
HEAVILY FEATURING: l’amore de sa vie, sa progéniture et fils, & son amour humain.
// Okay, so I’ve decided I am going to switch this blog and Cel’s so hers in my main. Since Tumblr won’t let me just swap them around, I’m going to have to move both blogs in order to do it. The queue was the only thing stopping me before but I think I’m just going to let it run on here and swap threads over as ya’ll reply to them. I’ll try to monitor them as much as possible but if you want to tag the new blog when it comes time, go for it.
Having kinky sex is great but having them fall asleep with their head on your chest, curled up in your arms while you run your fingers through their hair is something else entirely.
send “OBSERVE”for a mini-drabble of how MY MUSE sees and/or thinks about YOUR MUSE while they do something completely ordinary. This can be them reading, cooking, sleeping, just ordinary moments the often get glossed over in threads and roleplays. Feel free to specify what your muse is doing if you want to!
Esme is exhausted— beyond that actually, but she doesn't have the words. The hopelessness is familiar, except the pain she felt on that cliff is tenfold in its agony now.
She had never believed that she'd find herself in such a situation again. Instead of mourning one, she mourns the coven she had alongside the son she had lost originally. At the same time, she finds herself despising Carlisle for "saving" her.
"I don't know if I can do it again, Celeste. Survive." Esme's words scratch the back of her throat. They don't even sound like her. "I've done it once, before that even, and what do I have to show for it?" Esme asks, unsure if she even wants to hear Celeste's poor excuse of an answer. It is kinder than her parents had been, but equally as useless. Either way, neither did anything; her parents because they refused, Celeste because she cannot.
Perhaps the issue is Esme herself.
The thought causes a sharp inhale, eyes squeezing shut.
If she had just managed to convince Carlisle of Aro's nefarious intentions, then everyone would still be alive now. She had failed. She had failed, and here were the consequences, suffocating dead lungs and weighing dead limbs.
"If you do anything now, you'll help me kill them." Black eyes meet Celeste's own, her expression serious. She does not want to frame it as repentance, but if Celeste can realise that her own failings secured Esme's coven's demise, then perhaps her guilt can be used to Esme's advantage. "I could lie and say it's to ensure others don't feel this agony, but I want to feel their heads tearing from their shoulders by my own hands. Do you understand?"
Celeste is no stranger to having people taken from her by another’s hand. She may have only had the memories for a little less than a year now, but the pain had been present all the same. It had plagued her dreams and her quietest moments, monsters left to run in the shadows of her mind, unseen but nevertheless felt. She knew what that need for revenge felt like because she had lived with it for a thousand years, obsessively chasing a killer that had no face and for the first centuries, no name either. If she thought on it, she still wanted that revenge. She still wanted to tear into that woman with her own hands and teeth, still wanted to torment her the way she had tormented Celeste, the way her men had tortured her sisters before they killed them, the way her baby must have suffered as she was born far too early. Normally, she was against such cruelty this revenge had felt like justice to her. That revenge had been taken from her in the name of protecting her from the darkness it would create but it still felt unfinished and now it always would. She did not want to do the same to Esme.
But the Volturi were ancient vampires. While she was sure Maurice, and maybe even herself, could have stopped them with political pull, she is also certain that if it came to a fight, not even Maurice could have survived it. Just one original member would be enough to overcome him let alone four, let alone their army and all those special gifts. And they have something Celeste doesn’t too — the ability to survive the sun unharmed, members of a similar but distinct breed of vampire.
“Esme…”
Celeste’s voice breaks on the word, heartbreak and guilt and regret in the warm brown of her eyes. She feels so helpless, so useless, and she hates it. She hates that she cannot do something, but this is the wrong action. This will result in both their swift demises.
“You know we can’t do that. We wouldn’t survive it. We wouldn’t even get close. I’m sorry.”
Moving on. That was the best course of action. The sooner Ophelia put food in her mouth, the quicker she would stop putting her foot in it instead. As Celeste got up, she reaches for some of the snacks, about to take a bite before she hears her question. “Wine is good. Whatever you’re having, really, I’m not too fussy.” If it was stronger, she’d just have to pace herself. She wasn’t about to be that lightweight who either fell asleep too early or got sick at the sleepover. That would hardly be any fun.
Taking a handful of the sweets and popping them in her mouth, she’s following after her, eager to get the cookies out of the oven and in front of her. If she didn’t get sick from the alcohol, it would likely be from all the food this evening. Then again, that felt on par for sleepovers too.
“Did you want to do anything else during the movie, or are you the type that has to give it its full focus?” She asks, grabbing some hot pads and carefully taking the tray out and setting it on the counter. “We could do our nails? Each other’s hair? All the stereotypical girly sleepover stuff?”
Celeste glances over briefly, a second of time dedicated to watching Ophelia pull the cookies from the oven, and then she’s selecting a wine from the small readily available selection upstairs ( there’s a much larger collection of much older and nicer wines down in the wine cellar ). She pours two glasses of a sweet white that would pair well with all the sweets Phee would be having tonight.
“Sure,” she says. “You know far more about this than I do, I’m sure. This wasn’t really a thing when I was growing up.”
And she wouldn’t have subjected anyone else to her tumultuous home anyways. She wouldn’t have even had time to.
Celeste’s fingers brush the petals of the flowers that now adorn her hair, brown eyes rolling up as if she can see the crown Ophelia placed on her head. She breathes a sharp exhale through her nose, equal parts amusement and something else. It had been a long time since she had strung little blooms together like this, and even longer since anyone had done it for her.
“What is this about?” she says, looking back at her. “Where’d you even get the flowers?”
