IMPORTANT PSA aka AUTUMN NEEDS TO MAKE THIS SPACE COMFORTABLE AGAIN.
First of all: Yet again i’m sorry for the lack of activity lately. I’ve been around, just quieter than usual, and it’s taken me a bit to figure out why. After thinking about it, I realized that a few things need to change for me to feel comfortable being here again and to enjoy writing the way I used to.
Part of that is tied to something i’ve always had written in my DRAMA & DNI section:
“ ANOTHER WAY TO EARN A HARD BLOCK RIGHT AWAY IS IF I SEE YOU BEING NASTY TOWARDS ONE OF MY FRIENDS AND MAKING THEM FEEL BAD OR IF I CATCH YOU SPREADING (ANON) HATE. I WON’T TOLERATE THAT NO MATTER HOW CLOSE WE ARE ”
This has always been an important rule to me and I've been enforcing it to some degree, but recent events have reminded me how necessary it really is. I haven't been attacked personally but what has happened has hurt people I'm close with, people who make this space better by just being in it. Seeing them withdraw has been really disheartening and it has taken a lot of the fun and comfort out of being here from me, too.
So here's where I'm drawing the line for good. I'm going to stand for what I believe in, stand by my friends and start curating a space that feels safe and kind to be in again. I'd also like to say that this is NOT about people venting or needing to get frustrations off their chest . . . we all do that, myself included. What I'm talking about is the kind of vile, hateful behavior that crosses every line of basic decency and it's completely different from having disagreements or bad days. From now on, I'll be strictly enforcing the rule mentioned above.
I don't want that energy around me or my friends and I don't want to feel paranoid about if these things are spread behind my back as well.
Phew, alright, let's end this on a different, more lighter note: A couple of other changes are going to happen. Creative changes. Lexi Branson and Rebekah Mikaelson have been removed from my roster BUT I'm working on a few more OC's that I'm genuinely excited to introduce soon.
Thanks for understanding and for everyone who's been kind - I see you and I appreciate you ♡
Every once in a while, I get this urge to dive deeper into the lore of Doppelgängers, wondering where this rabbit hole would lead me . . . recently, I have spent a lot of time doing just that, and today I'd like to share what I found. I'm also not sure if this is a headcanon post or rather an essay about a supernatural being I'm weirdly hyperfixated on? Either way, it's important for Cami's lore so let's talk Doppelgängers, how TVD missed the mark and how it all ties in with Camille 🧍🏼♀️🧍🏼♀️
Doppelgänger [ˈdɔpl̩ˌɡɛŋɐ]. The word itself is German, quite literally translating to ‘double walker’. These days, some people strive to encounter them someday, wish to run into someone who looks just like them for funsies, hell, there’s even r/doppleganger out there (which isn’t surprising, there’s something for everything on reddit, but I digress). But in the folklore I found, to meet your double was not some fun, quirky coincidence. It was terrifying. An omen. The kind of encounter that meant death was near or something was about to be torn apart in your life. Oneself wasn’t supposed to split, and if it did, you weren’t supposed to survive it.
But scary doubles roaming the earth aren’t just a German invention. They exist across cultures, each version a little different. The Egyptians spoke of the Ka, a spiritual twin that lingered after death. The Norse told stories of the Vardøger, a ghost-self that arrived before you did: footsteps on the stairs, your voice in the next room, all before you ever walked in. The Irish whispered about the Fetch, a likeness that showed itself before someone died. And in Yoruba and Igbo traditions, the double wasn’t feared at all: the Ori and the Chi were higher selves, destiny-companions. Not curses. Not omens. Something bigger.
Some cultures feared their doubles. Others honored them. Either way, the same truth ran underneath: you don’t outrun your reflection. You can’t.
That’s what The Vampire Diaries brushed up against but never quite held onto, which is the reason why it always felt like they fumbled something with the Doppelgängers. I’d argue that in the beginning there was a hint of real folklore in the way Elena was hunted. For a moment, she felt like a living omen, marked by her face alone. A weird copy of Katherine Pierce and no one was able to explain why she existed. That was folkloric, uncanny, right there . . . even though it happened on accident. Because let’s be real, j*lec could never figure something like that out. Don’t believe me? Just look at how they continued that plot. With Silas, the immortality spell and a genealogy of lookalikes that were destined to fall in love with each other and explained everything away BeCaUsE NaTuRe nEeDeD A WaY To rEsToRe tHe bAlAnCe.
It could have been darker, stranger. Could’ve been more about the dread of being seen twice than a convenient key to magic. IT WAS RIGHT THERE. I have to admit though, in a weird way Elena was still a bad omen, considering how the life’s of all the people she loved went to shit eventually. Anyway.
I think Camille is a mixture of all of the different types of Doppelgängers found throughout the folklore I’ve seen. She is a reminder that the myth was always about duality: doom on one side, destiny on the other. People see her face and think of endings, like the Fetch. Her presence unsettles because she carries with her the implication of loss, of death that hasn’t arrived yet. And yet she also holds the thread of Ori and Chi, the idea that a double can be proof of something larger than yourself, a reminder of the path you’re meant to walk.
It leaves her in a constant push and pull. Is she cursed to echo someone else’s story, to stand in as a replacement, to die in their place? Or is she chosen, not as a copy but as a figure set apart, her existence bound to something higher? To live as a Doppelgänger is to be trapped between these answers, and she feels it in every part of her life . . . in the way people look at her, the way she questions her own choices, the way her reflection sometimes feels like a stranger’s.
And maybe that’s the truth folklore was trying to tell all along. That the Doppelgänger was never just a death omen, never just a shadow to be feared, but a reflection we cannot outrun. A story that belongs as much to survival as it does to doom. For Camille, it isn’t about unlocking a curse or breaking a spell. It’s about learning to exist with the reflection that follows her, the second self that refuses to disappear.
Maybe the real question was never: What does the double want?
Maybe it was always: What part of yourself are you most afraid to see staring back?
* . ⸙ @hellconsumed liked this for a random starter for damiano
(accepting)
THE KNOCK WASN’T LOUD, BUT IT LANDED LIKE A GUT PUNCH. Three slow, deliberate raps against the wood, like whoever was on the other side already knew she was awake, already knew she’d answer even if she didn’t want to. Camille stood in the middle of her apartment, barefoot, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, tea long gone cold on the counter behind her. She hadn’t been able to sleep, and the kitchen clock had blinked 2:11 AM in quiet accusation when she passed it.
She should’ve stayed where she was. Let the moment pass, but instead she crossed the room. Unlocked the door. Cracked it open just wide enough to see him standing there.
“ Whatever you’re going to ask ”, she said before he could get a word in, “ the answer’s no ”
It was reflex. A shield she didn’t have the energy to hold up for long. Her voice sounded more tired than angry. Camille wasn’t even sure if she was angry anymore or just worn down from replaying the same argument in her head, chewing on every silence between them like it might tell her something she’d missed.
“ If you’re here to apologize ”, the Doppelgänger added, arms folding across her chest, “ you’re a couple days late. And if this is about that thing in the Quarter . . . I kinda already burned the evidence ”
That earned her a look. She didn’t return it. Just leaned her shoulder against the doorframe, eyelids lowering slightly like she might finally feel the weight of the day settling into her bones. Or maybe it was just that him being here unraveled something she’d spent the better part of the week trying to keep knotted tight.
It didn’t help that she still wanted to let him in. Not just physically, not just into the apartment, but into the part of her that hadn’t quite let go. She hated that about herself. That softness. That stupid, stubborn part of her that couldn't hold a grudge long enough when she cared about someone.
* . ⸙ @cardiomyapathy liked this for a random starter
(accepting)
IT HAD BEEN TWENTY MINUTES SINCE THE BARTENDER HAD DISAPPEARED. Or maybe longer. Camille hadn’t exactly been watching the clock, just the melting ice in her glass and the slow decay of small talk all around her. Whoever planned this party had clearly leaned too hard on aesthetic over logistics: candlelight flickering in artfully smudged lanterns, curated playlists fading in and out with the crowd’s mood, and not a single drink in sight . . . unless you got creative.
“ Alright ”, Camille murmured under her breath, ducking behind the bar with all the stealth of someone who knew they weren’t supposed to be there and didn’t particularly care, “ Just one refill. I’ve earned it ”
The bottles were neatly lined like little soldiers. She reached for something dark and promising, already halfway through twisting the cap when she noticed a shift in the air: a presence, a shadow brushing the edge of her awareness.
Camille stilled, then turned slowly, catching sight of the figure standing there. Broad shoulders. Tall frame. Watching her like he’d seen the whole thing. Maybe this wasn’t her smoothest heist.
“ How long have you been standing there? ”, she blinked once, then exhaled a soft laugh and raised the bottle slightly in his direction like it might shield her from consequences, “ Because if you say anything longer than thirty seconds, I’m going to have to accuse you of being complicit ”
a collection of unfinished endings, of knives passed down instead of names. a study in monsters made by love, betrayal dressed like family, fever-dream roads and lives lived out of spite. a love letter to the ones who ran, the ones who stayed, the ones who burned it all down ⅋ to everything that came back wrong.
* . ⸙ @summerwishes liked this for a random starter
(accepting)
CAMILLE LEANED BACK ON HER PALMS, LEGS CROSSED ON THE BLANKET THEY’D HALF-HEARTEDLY SHAKEN OUT OVER THE SAND. The foil from their shared order of fries fluttered beside her, half-buried in the wind. They’d talked for hours. Long enough for the sun to move. Long enough that it didn’t feel like talking to a stranger anymore.
She glanced sideways over to Belly, studying the quiet curve of her profile. Her expression had shifted more than once since the story came out. From guilt to uncertainty to something like aching relief. And now she just looked . . . tired. The kind of tired that doesn’t come from staying up all night, but from holding something in too long. Cami reached for one last fry and held it between her fingers like it might make the moment easier, then offered it Belly’s way with a small, easy gesture.
“ I mean . . . maybe it wasn’t the cleanest exit ”, she said finally, voice low but even, “ But you did a bad thing for a good reason ” She paused, letting the words settle without looking away.
“ I think your heart knew way before you did. Something wasn’t right. And if you’d gone through with it just to keep the peace? That’s not the kind of love anyone wants. That’s slow-motion drowning ”, she gave the other a understanding smile.
“ For what it’s worth . . . I think it was brave. Listening to your heart, even when it tells you something inconvenient? ”, she shrugged, “ Not enough people do that ”
* . ⸙ @388s liked this for a random starter
(accepting)
THE ALLEY BEHIND THE BAR REEKED OF WHATEVER CHEMICAL CLEANER THE STAFF HAD TOSSED OUT AN HOUR AGO. Overhead, a broken neon sign flickered uselessly against the brick, casting everything in a washed-out red that made the shadows look longer than they were.
Camille stood with her back to the wall, one hand braced just above her knee, breathing slow like she was still trying to catch up to the last five minutes. Her hair had slipped from its clip. Blood streaked the edge of her sleeve - not hers, thank god - and a scrape bloomed just above her collarbone where someone’s grip had landed too hard before everything fell apart.
She hadn’t planned to be here tonight. Just wanted a drink, a quiet booth, a second to breathe. The stranger across from her caught her attention early on, leaning near the bar with a kind of calm that didn’t quite match the energy of the place. Observant. Still. He didn’t look like someone who picked fights to her, but when the chaos started, he helped her out without hesitation.
Now they were out back, shoulder to shoulder beneath the low buzz of neon, the door sealed behind them like it was trying to keep the night from bleeding out. Inside, music still pulsed faintly, too far away now to matter.
Her knuckles were raw. Her heartbeat was still out of sync with itself, stuttering between fight and flight. But when she finally spoke, her voice didn’t waver.
“ I should’ve handled this differently . . . shit ”, Camille said, dark eyes lifting up to meet his, “ But if we both stick to the same story . . . they can’t prove anything? ” She paused, just long enough to breathe. Her hand curled into the fabric of her coat, anchoring herself to something.
“ It happened so fast, this should count as self-defense, right? ”, she added, leaning her head back against the brick, closing her eyes for half a second, “ Or how about we just get the fuck out of here before someone gets the chance to ask questions? ”
The sirens weren’t close yet. But they would be. Someone had called the cops. She could feel it in her bones; that narrowing window where everything was still negotiable.
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