Fuck yeah Klamille

Fuck yeah Klamille is an appreciation blog for the pairing of Klaus Mikaelson and Camille O’Connell, better known as Klamille, on The Originals. On this blog, we will post and reblog gifs, fanart and pictures of them, as well as the characters individually and the actors who play them, Joseph Morgan and Leah Pipes. If you want to, you can also join our shippers club. To be added to the list, you just have to message us. Tracking: fuckyeahklamille

[belladonnaslove]

The fact that Camille told Klaus her name was a granny name and to call her Cami. Every episode after that, you will find Klaus mostly saying Camille instead of Cami.

It's just so hilarious and cute that I've been watching clips and edits of them on YouTube over and over again. Best ship ever! 🥰

[velvetfangsx]

─────────── ❝ ──────────

klaus mikaelson x camille o’connell

─────────── ❝ ───────────

pairing: klaus mikaelson x camille o’connell

themes: obsession, devotion, morality, possession

setting: french quarter, after dark

Previous chapter: here

Chapter 18

Camille sat on the damp, mossy log at the edge of the Blackwater, her spine perfectly straight.

By all rights, she should have been in the throes of a panic attack. Her life had been dismantled in a matter of days; her brother was dead, her uncle was gone, and she was currently sitting in a swamp changing into something that didn't even have a human name.

Yet, as she watched the moonlight ripple across the surface of the water, she felt an eerie, unshakable calm.

She searched for the fear. she reached back into the recesses of her mind, looking for the girl who used to worry about her thesis or the safety of the French Quarter, but that version of Camille felt like a character in a book she had finished reading a long time ago. The "Silvering" wasn't just a physical change; it was a biological mercy. It smoothed over the jagged edges of her grief and the frantic rhythm of her anxiety until everything was level.

She wasn't afraid. That was the strangest part. She looked at the shadows shifting in the trees and felt a sense of immense, quiet power. She didn't feel like a victim of the Mikaelsons anymore. She felt like a mountain watching a storm approach—vast, ancient, and entirely immovable.

Why am I not angry? she wondered.

The thought was clinical, detached. Klaus had manipulated her. He had used her as a sounding board for his narcissism and then accidentally triggered the destruction of her family's legacy. She should have wanted to scream at him. She should have wanted to tear the Abattoir down brick by brick. But the anger felt small—a tiny, insignificant spark in the face of the vast, silver ocean now filling her veins. She realized, with a start, that she was now as powerful as he was. Not in the way of fangs and speed, but in the way of the foundation. She was the Shore, and she was beginning to understand that the Shore didn't need to be angry at the Wave. It simply had to exist.

Then

Klaus stepped into the clearing, and for a moment, the "Mirror" inside her flared to life. As he approached, she didn't just see him; she reflected him.

The darkness rolling off Klaus was a physical weight. It was a chaotic, screaming riot of a thousand years of bloodlust, paranoia, and unrefined ego. It was an ink-black storm that threatened to swallow the light of the Bayou. Camille felt the Mirror within her begin to churn, catching the jagged edges of his frequency and bouncing them back.

It was too much. The sheer volume of his darkness the voices of the people he’d killed, the centuries of being the "Great Evil"—hit her like a tidal wave. For a split second, her composure wavered. The silver in her eyes pulsed violently, vibrating in time with the jagged rhythm of his soul. It was a sensory overload of every terrible thing he had ever done, a thousand years of noise trying to find a home in her silence. She gripped the edge of the log, her knuckles turning white, as she forced the Mirror to stabilize. She had to contain him. She had to be the casing for a god who had never known a limit.

Klaus stopped ten feet away, his boots sinking into the soft mud. He had come here with every intention of being the King. He had expected to feel the "pull" as an insult, a leash that he would eventually find a way to snap. He expected to look at Camille and see a weapon he needed to disarm or a threat he needed to neutralize.

But as he stood in the radius of her silver glow, the world simply stopped.

The "noise"—the constant, grinding static of his own mind—ceased to exist. The voices of his victims, the echoes of Mikael’s belt, the crushing weight of his own endless, frantic ambition... it all went silent.

For the first time in his immortal life, Klaus Mikaelson felt peace.

It was more terrifying than any battle he had ever fought. In a war, Klaus knew the terrain. He knew how to move, how to strike, and how to survive. But this peace was an abyss. It was a cold, absolute stillness that stripped him of his armor, his fangs, and his rage. He felt the terrifying vulnerability of a man who had finally stopped running and realized he had nowhere left to go. The silence didn't just soothe him; it unmade him. He felt small. He felt human. He felt like a boy standing in the dark, finally allowed to stop screaming.

He didn't move to attack. He didn't move to subvert the power she now held over him. He moved like a man walking toward a light he didn't think he was allowed to touch.

Klaus began the approach.

Every step felt like shedding a century of skin. The closer he got to her, the quieter his head became, until the only thing he could hear was the soft, rhythmic thrum of the silver humming in the air. He wasn't the Great Hybrid here. He wasn't the monster of New Orleans. He was a creature drawn to the only thing in the universe that could make him feel... finished.

He reached the edge of the log. He looked up at her, his eyes wide and fractured, searching the mercury of her gaze for a glimpse of the woman who used to challenge him over a drink. But the girl was buried under the Mirror, and the Mirror was reflecting his own desperate need for rest back at him.

Klaus reached out a hand.

His fingers were trembling—a sight that would have made his enemies weep with laughter and his siblings go pale with shock. His hand was still stained with the silver and black paint from his room, the remnants of his frantic, failed attempt to paint his way into a past he couldn't remember. He didn't reach for her throat or her heart. He reached for her face, his hand moving through the air as if he were trying to touch the surface of a dream.

The static charge between them was so intense that the air smelled of ozone and salt. He could see the silver light dancing off his own skin, turning the grime and the paint into something ethereal. He was stepping into the light, leaving the thousand-year-long night of his life behind, and he was terrified that the moment he touched her, the silence would be the last thing he ever felt.

"I expected to hate this," Klaus whispered, his voice a jagged, broken rasp. "I expected to want to tear the world apart until this feeling went away."

Camille looked down at his trembling hand. She could feel the heat of him, the frantic energy of his darkness still trying to find a way to lash out, but the Mirror was holding it. She was the casing. She was the shore.

"You don't hate the silence, Niklaus," Cami said, her voice sounding like the chime of a bell in a high-altitude wind. "You’re just afraid of what you’ll hear when you’re the only one left in the room."

Klaus’s hand hovered inches from her cheek. He wasn't trying to protect her. He wasn't even trying to save himself. He was just a moth that had finally found the flame, and for the first time in ten centuries, he didn't care if it burned him to ash. He just wanted to be still.

He leaned into the light, his fingers closing the final gap, his entire existence narrowing down to the single, terrifying point where the Storm finally met the Shore. He was a King kneeling in the mud, reaching for a girl who had become a god, waiting to see if the reflection would save him or destroy him.

"Camille," he breathed, a plea and a prayer all at once.

the frantic, uneven thud of boots on the porch of the Seer’s hut. The old woman stumbled into the moonlight, her blindfolded face tilted upward as if she could see the catastrophic collision of energies beginning to spiral in the air.

"No! Stop!" she shrieked, her voice cracking with a raw, ancient terror. She reached out with clawed hands, as if she could physically pull the two of them apart from a distance. "Niklaus, pull back! Camille, close the Mirror!"

Neither of them moved. Klaus was mesmerized, his hand drifting through the static-heavy air like a man possessed. Camille sat like a statue of mercury, her gaze locked onto his with a devastating, quiet intensity.

"The Casing is not ready!" the Seer screamed, her voice rising to a jagged crescendo. "The friction! You are an Original—a thousand years of unrefined, screaming darkness! She is an un-anchored Lúirech, a void without a base! If you touch her now, the dissonance will burn you both to ash! You will shatter the very soul you seek to find!"

Klaus heard her, but the words felt like they were coming from another lifetime, a distant echo in a world that no longer mattered. The "peace" he felt was a siren song, a gravity so powerful that the threat of death was a minor price to pay for one second of silence. Camille, too, felt the warning vibrate through her, but the Mirror within her was hungry. It recognized its counterpart. It wanted the storm.

They ignored the world. They ignored the Seer. Klaus’s paint-stained fingers finally closed the last fraction of an inch, his palm cupping the cool, silver-lit skin of Camille’s cheek.

The Result was instantaneous and apocalyptic.

It didn't feel like a caress. It didn't feel like a human touch. The moment skin met skin, it was as if two tectonic plates had collided in the center of their chests. A blinding shockwave of silver and gold energy erupted from the point of contact, a physical blast so powerful it flattened the tall marsh grass for fifty yards in every direction. The Blackwater hissed as a wall of pressure sent a ripple outward, snapping the reeds and silencing the crickets in a single, violent stroke.

The pain was white-hot. It was the agony of a thousand years of noise being forced through a needle's eye. Klaus felt his hybrid blood boil, his very atoms screaming as the Lúirech began to process his existence. Camille felt her heart stutter, the weight of his sins and his history pouring into her like molten lead. It was a friction that threatened to liquefy their bones.

But neither let go.

Klaus’s fingers dug into her skin, his eyes wide and bloodshot as the gold of the wolf and the silver of the mirror bled together. Camille gripped his wrist, her breath hitching in a silent sob of agony and relief. They were caught in the eye of a metaphysical hurricane, a vacuum where time and space had ceased to function.

The Bayou went deathly quiet. The Seer fell to her knees, weeping in the dirt as the light from the clearing turned the night into a brilliant, terrifying day. The King and the Mirror were locked in a circuit of their own making, and as the pain reached a fever pitch, the world around them began to dissolve into the jagged, stone-cold reality of a memory they had both been forced to forget.

When the light stopped screaming, the Bayou was gone.

They were standing in the heart of a sprawling, cavernous cathedral. The architecture was primitive yet imposing, characterized by heavy Romanesque arches and walls of jagged grey limestone that seemed to sweat in the cold. High above, the vaulted ceiling was lost in shadows, save for the narrow lancet windows that allowed slivers of a brutal, winter moon to cut through the gloom. The floor beneath their feet was uneven, worn down by the knees of centuries of the faithful, and the air was thick with the suffocating, oily scent of beeswax and frankincense.

Klaus tried to gasp, but his lungs were occupied by a body that wasn't entirely his own. He was an observer trapped behind the eyes of a younger, rawer version of himself. This Niklaus was a man of the 12th century, draped in thick, unrefined furs and tunics of rough-spun wool held together by iron buckles. His face lacked the calculated, weary malice of the modern Hybrid; instead, it was open, terrified, and vibrating with a desperate, human vulnerability.

And there, standing in the center of a ring of salt and silver, was Camille.

She was radiant and terrifying. She wore heavy, midnight-blue silks that rustled with the weight of silver embroidery. Her hair was woven into intricate, regal braids that cascaded over her shoulders, but her face—though framed by the wealth of a noblewoman—bore the same look of defiant empathy that had always undone him. Her eyes were already turning. The mercury was rising in her irises like a tide, reflecting the flickering light of a hundred tallow candles.

Camille," the younger Klaus whispered, his voice a ragged plea that echoed off the cold stone.

She didn't speak. She couldn't. She was held in place by the invisible, crushing weight of a ritual being conducted by three High Priests. They wore robes of bone-white wool, their faces hidden behind expressionless silver masks that mirrored Camille’s eyes. They moved with a terrifying, rhythmic precision, their voices chanting in a guttural, prehistoric Latin that made the very floor beneath them vibrate.

"The King is the Storm," the Lead Priest intoned, his voice sounding like grinding tectonic plates. "But no Storm can be contained without a Shore that has been hardened by blood."

Klaus watched, paralyzed by the memory, as two hooded acolytes dragged a young man into the circle of light. The modern Klaus felt a visceral, sickening jolt of recognition. The boy was Sean. He wore a simple, dirt-stained tunic, his face a perfect mirror of the brother Camille had lost in a New Orleans church eight centuries later. This was the Life-Twin—the Anchor.

The Priests hadn't stumbled upon the Lúirech; they had engineered her. They had seen the burgeoning power of the Mikaelson bloodline and the "noise" it created in the world, and they had chosen to create a counter-balance. They had looked at the deep, illicit bond between the Original Hybrid and this O'Connell daughter and decided to turn their love into a cage.

"Sean, no!" the 12th-century Camille cried out, her voice a piercing note of grief that sliced through the chanting.

The Lead Priest raised a jagged dagger of obsidian. "To cage the Great Evil, the Light must be extinguished. One soul to hold the Mirror. One soul to reflect the God."

With a sickeningly efficient motion, the priest drove the blade into the boy’s chest. Sean didn't scream; he simply exhaled, a soft sound of departing life as his blood was channeled into a silver basin at Camille’s feet. The modern Klaus felt the agony of the connection ignite. The moment the sacrifice was complete, the silver light in Camille’s eyes exploded. She arched her back, her mouth opening in a silent scream as she absorbed the "Stillness" created by her brother’s death. She was no longer just a woman; she was a spatial anomaly, a living void designed to house the darkness of a monster.

The vision shifted, blurring through weeks of whispered promises and hidden moments.

He saw himself and Camille in the hidden corners of Europe. He saw them in a sun-drenched meadow in Southern France, where she had laughed at his attempts to recite poetry, her eyes briefly flickering back to brown before the silver claimed them again. He saw them in a rain-slicked courtyard in a forgotten castle, where he had collapsed at her feet after a slaughter, covered in the blood of an entire village.

He remembered the touch of her hand on his brow—not as a doctor or a bartender, but as a lover who knew the exact depth of his depravity and chose to stay. She had been his partner in the dark. Every time Klaus killed, every time his paranoia threatened to tear his family apart, Camille would step into his space. She would take his face in her hands, and the "noise" would stop. She was housing his sins, taking the psychic weight of his victims into herself so that he could remain "Niklaus" and not become the "Beast."

But the cost was visible. In every memory, Camille grew paler. Her skin became translucent, her veins shimmering with mercury light. She was absorbing too much. She was a container with a finite capacity, and Klaus was a storm that never ended.

Her body was vibrating, her skin becoming translucent as the mercury light began to leak from her pores. She had been the Mirror for too long without a casing. She had spent every waking moment absorbing Klaus’s kills, his paranoia, and the growing rot of his soul to keep him sane. She was "overloading," her human heart turning to literal glass under the pressure of his thousand-year-potential.

The younger Klaus was on his knees, cradling her head, his face a mask of absolute, shattering grief. "I will kill them all," he sobbed. "I will burn this world to the ground for what they did to you."

"No, Niklaus," Cami whispered, her voice sounding like breaking crystal. She reached up, her fingers trembling as they touched his forehead—exactly where his hand was resting on her cheek in the present.

She looked into his eyes, and the modern Klaus saw the moment of the Great Sacrifice. She realized that if she died and left him with the memory of this pain, his darkness would finally consume him. He would become the monster the world feared, and there would be nothing left to save.

"You are too loud," she said, her voice filled with a devastating, celestial mercy. "Your mind is a riot of screams, and I cannot leave you in that noise. I will not let you mourn me for a thousand years."

With the last of her strength, Cami didn't just die. She reached into the fundamental architecture of his mind. She used the power of the Lúirech—the ability to reflect and redirect—to pull every memory of her existence into herself. She sucked the history of their love, the trauma of Sean’s sacrifice, and the very name Camille out of his consciousness.

She was the Mirror, and she chose to take the reflection with her into the dark.

"I will take your pain," she whispered as her eyes went completely white. "I will take the memory of us, so you can survive. Forget me, Niklaus. Be the King they expect. I will wait in the silence."

As she took her last breath, the modern Klaus felt the "reset." He felt the agonizing emptiness of his own mind being edited, the holes where her face used to be being filled with nothing but cold, stagnant air. She had died so he wouldn't have to feel. She had erased herself to keep him from breaking.

The cathedral began to crumble, the stones turning to smoke.

Klaus saw one final flicker—a vision of Cami’s soul, suspended in the mercury void. She wasn't gone. She was a frequency, a lingering note of music waiting for the right moment to play again. She hadn't just been born in New Orleans by chance. She had been a seed planted in the bloodline of the O’Connells, waiting for the world to become loud enough, waiting for Klaus to become broken enough, so she could find her way back to the shore.

Klaus and Camille collapsed into the mud of the Bayou, their hands finally breaking apart. The shockwave had passed, leaving the clearing in an unnatural, bruised silence. Klaus was gasping, his lungs burning with the humid Louisiana air, his mind suddenly screaming with the weight of twelve centuries of recovered data. It wasn't a trickle; it was a dam breaking. A thousand years of loving her, losing her, and being "reset" by her sacrifice crashed into his brain all at once.

He couldn't move. He lay in the dirt, his hands clawing at the mud, his eyes wide and fractured. He looked like a man who had just seen the sun for the first time and realized he had been blind his entire life.

But Camille was not the noblewoman of the 12th century. She was Cami.

She scrambled backward away from him, her breath coming in ragged, terrified hitches. The mercury in her eyes was flickering violently, struggling to settle against the raw, human trauma she had just witnessed. She looked at Klaus, and there was no "recognition" or "shore-like" calm. There was only pure, unadulterated horror.

"What was that?" she choked out, her voice trembling so hard it was barely audible. "Who was that boy? Why did he have Sean’s face? Why were we... why were you crying over me?"

She looked at her hands, then at the Seer, who lay weeping in the distance. "Klaus, what did you do? What did those people do to me?"

Klaus looked at her, and for the first time in his life, he didn't have a retort. He didn't have a plan. He was staring at her with a look of profound, agonizing confusion. The memories told him he loved her with a ferocity that spanned ages, but his heart was still stuck in the present, looking at a girl who was currently terrified of his very existence.

"I didn't know," Klaus whispered, his voice a jagged rasp. He reached out a hand, but pulled it back as if burned. "I don't understand. I remember you... I remember the cathedral... but I don't know who that man was. I don't know how I could have forgotten you."

"It felt real," Cami cried, tears finally breaking through the silver glow of her eyes. "It felt like I died. It felt like I loved you, and I don't even know you! You’re just the man who broke into my life and ruined everything!"

They sat in the mud, five feet of swamp water and a thousand years of lies between them. Camille was shaking, her mind trying to reconcile the modern-day monster with the weeping man in the vision. Klaus was silent, crushed by the realization that he had been "saved" by a woman who had died for him over and over again—and that in every lifetime, the cost was always her soul.

[hyperactivewhore]

Rip Klaus Mikaelson, you would have loved spending eternity with Camille O'Connell

[gracesired]

Klamille edit

[amandarm]

I usually hate and ignore Klaus ship wars for the simple reason that I like all the girls individually, and it makes me so sad when people put any of them down because of a man who, let’s be honest, didn’t deserve any of them.

(Camille, Hayley, Aurora, Caroline... all of them could do way better.)

But I mostly hate it when people act as if Camille didn’t hold her ground against him. She did. And she did it as a HUMAN!

During the compulsion arc, she never, at any moment, accepted the position he was putting her in. She argued with him the whole way through.

After he revealed the supernatural world to her and began telling her about his monstrous acts, she remained unafraid to speak her mind. In episode 8, he told her about stabbing his siblings for disagreeing with him, and she immediately called him out. Anyone in that situation would probably rationalize that if he did that to his own blood, it would be best to stay quiet. But she didn’t.

In episode 6, he told her about Agnes’s death (the woman who killed her brother, by the way), and she SMACKED him.

A thousand-year-old hybrid walks in, telling you with a smile that he just participated in a murder, and you, a young human woman, slap him hard and threaten him. (I could never, my girl was so brave.)

All while she was secretly working under his nose to free herself from the mind control she knew very little about at the time.

When the compulsion was broken, she refused to let him have any form of control over her.

In episode 11, he told her over the phone to leave Rousseau’s when Papa Tunde was there. She didn’t. When he tried to stop her from helping Marcel, she went for it anyway.

"You don’t control me anymore, remember?"

During Father Kieran’s hex plot, he continuously told her she should accept it and let go. Even though he was right (and I believe deep down she knew it), she didn’t stop fighting for her uncle.

"I refuse to accept that. And you too, if you had any concept of family."

When she sleeps with Marcel, she refuses to let him shame her for it.

Honestly, I would say 90% of season 1 for Klamille consisted of Cami humbling him.

In season 2, he hurt everyone to defeat Dahlia, but Camille was the only one he apologized to and actually showed some remorse. She only accepted help him after he acknowledged what he did to her.

In the first few episodes of season 3, she firmly, and even harshly, made it clear to him that she would only truly believe in his change once he started putting it into action.

And she did the same toward any man who tried to intimidate or tell her what to do (Marcel, Finn, Kol, Lucien, her uncle).

She is SO far from the doormat people tried to paint her as.

She was compassionate, understanding, caring, lovable. But she was also smart, strong, brave, and assertive.

Anyway, I will always support the Camille O’Connell (and Leah Pipes) Deserved Better Club.

[velvetfangsx]

If you're here about the gumbo I'm about to break your heart

Parings: Klaus mikeason x Camille o connell

[2/3]

Read on ao3 or Tumblr

Summary:

After a millennium of watching his family find their soulmates, Klaus Mikaelson is the only one left waiting. When he finally tracks his down, she’s working behind a bar, blissfully unaware of the bond or the monster standing in front of her.

The O’Connell household in the Garden District was usually a place of structured, unyielding order, filled with the scent of old paper, polished mahogany, and the faint, lingering trace of church incense brought home on her uncle’s heavy black cassocks. But on a sweltering Tuesday afternoon in the dead of July, that order completely shattered.

Camille O’Connell was only eight years old, her small legs dangling off the edge of the oversized velvet armchair in the family library, her bright blue eyes wide with a mixture of confusion and an unnamable, instinctive dread. She was clutching her left arm against her ribs, her small fingers digging into the fabric of her cotton sundress as if she could hide the strange, terrifying transformation that had taken place on her skin just hours before.

It wasn't supposed to happen. Not now. Not for another ten years.

In the O’Connell family, as in most human families in New Orleans, the arrival of a soulmark was a celebrated milestone of adulthood. It was a sacred rite of passage that traditionally occurred on a child's eighteenth birthday a biological and spiritual awakening where the universe finally saw fit to grant a mortal soul the map to its other half. Her parents had celebrated theirs with champagne and quiet, comfortable smiles. Her brother, Sean, was still years away from his, completely bare-skinned and carefree.

But Camille’s mark had arrived like a thief in the night, violent and entirely uninvited, breaking every law of nature the O’Connells held dear.

The door to the library clicked open, the heavy oak wood groaning on its brass hinges. Camille flinched, pulling her knees up to her chest as her uncle, Father Kieran O’Connell, strode into the room. He didn’t wear his priestly vestments today, but his presence was no less formidable. His brow was furrowed into deep, shadowed valleys, his jaw set in a hard, rigid line that she usually only saw when he was dealing with the stressful factions of the city. Behind him, her parents hovered in the doorway like ghosts, their faces pale, their eyes filled with a frantic, suffocating panic that thoroughly terrified her.

"Kieran," her mother whispered, her hand trembling as she touched her brother-in-law’s shoulder. "Look at her. She’s only eight. This isn't right. The spirits... the ancestral magic of this city, it doesn't work this way. It can't work this way."

"Calm yourself, Mary," Kieran said, his voice a deep, steady rumble that brought a momentary, deceptive calm to the room. He stepped across the Persian rug, his heavy boots sinking into the wool, and knelt down in front of Camille’s chair. He didn't look like a terrifying authority figure right now; he just looked like her uncle, his eyes softening as he reached out a broad, calloused hand.

"Camille," he said gently, his voice dropping to a comforting murmur. "Let me see. Don't be afraid. Just let your uncle look."

Camille swallowed hard, a tiny sob catching in her throat. She slowly peeled her fingers away from her left arm, turning her forearm upward.

There, etched into the pale, delicate skin just below the crook of her elbow, was a block of text. It was an absolute, stark, midnight black. The letters were sharp, elegant, and ancient, looking as though they had been carved into her flesh with a hot iron rather than written by the hand of destiny. The ink was vibrant, pulsing with a terrifying, hidden vitality that seemed to defy the young skin it sat upon.

Kieran leaned closer, adjusting his glasses as his eyes scanned the sharp, blocky characters. He read the words aloud, his voice dropping into an unsettling, heavy rhythm:

"Your oldest scotch for my two friends here, love."

The library went completely, unnaturally still. The words themselves were incredibly mundane the casual, arrogant demand of a man ordering drinks at a tavern. It was a phrase meant for a crowded, noisy room, completely devoid of poetry or romance. Yet, the sheer presence of the ink on an eight-year-old girl’s arm made the mundane words feel like a death sentence.

"A bar," her father, Pete, rasped from the doorway, his voice cracking with a sudden, protective fury. "Our daughter’s destiny is tied to some lowlife ordering cheap liquor in a dive? At eight years old? Kieran, what does this mean?"

Father Kieran didn’t answer his brother right away. He remained kneeling in front of Camille, his eyes fixed on the ink. He reached out, his thumb hovering just above the letters, not quite touching them, as if he could sense the latent energy radiating from the skin.

"Camille," Kieran said softly, locking his eyes onto hers. "I need you to tell me exactly how it feels. Don't think about what the words say. Just tell me what the ink is telling your body. What does it radiate?"

Camille looked down at her arm, her lower lip trembling. The moment her uncle asked the question, the phantom sensations she had been trying to ignore for the last three hours came rushing to the surface, overwhelming her small senses. She closed her eyes, a shiver running down her spine despite the stifling heat of the New Orleans afternoon.

"It's... it's heavy, Uncle Kieran," she whispered, her voice tiny and terrified. "It feels like a big, iron weight is sitting right on my arm. It doesn't tingle like Mommy said hers did. It just... it presses down. Like it wants to push me into the floor."

"And the temperature?" Kieran pressed, his tone growing sharper, more clinical, though his eyes remained fiercely protective. "Is it warm?"

"No," Camille said, shaking her head quickly, a tear finally escaping and tracking down her round cheek. "It tastes like fire. When I look at it, I can taste smoke in the back of my throat. Like something burning. Like an old fireplace that never gets cleaned. And it's dark, Uncle Kieran. Not just the color. When I close my eyes, it feels like... like a big shadow is standing over my bed. It feels like a great evil."

Mary gasped, covering her mouth with both hands, her eyes rolling back slightly as Pete caught her waist to keep her steady.

"A great evil," Kieran repeated, his voice barely a breath. His jaw tightened so hard the muscles in his cheek twitched. He knew the hidden world of New Orleans better than anyone in their family. As the human representative to the supernatural factions, he knew that the world was populated by monsters vampires, witches, and werewolves who walked the streets in broad daylight. And he knew, with a sudden, sickening certainty, that no ordinary human soul could generate a mark this heavy, this ancient, and this profoundly dark at such an early stage of a child's life.

Pete stepped forward, his face flushed with panic. "How is this possible, Kieran? The rules of the ancestors, the magic of the soul-bonds it's supposed to wait until she's eighteen! Why did it come so early? Why did it show up when she's practically a baby?"

Kieran slowly stood up, his tall frame casting a long shadow over Camille. He turned to face his brother and sister-in-law, his expression grim, his hands resting heavily on his hips.

"Because whoever or whatever is on the other end of this bond is not a normal man, Pete," Kieran said, his voice laced with a deep, historical gravity. "The soulmark system is governed by the balance of nature, by the spirits and the ancient magic that binds souls across time. Usually, it waits until both souls are mature enough to handle the connection. But if a mark manifests this early... it means the other soul has been waiting for an incredibly long time."

"What do you mean 'a long time'?" Mary cried out, her voice rising in hysterics. "She’s eight! He should be eight, or nine, or ten!"

"He isn't," Kieran said flatly, his eyes casting a dark glance back at Camille’s arm. "An old thing. An ancient thing. The spirits didn't wait for Camille to grow up because the entity on the other side has a soul so massive, so heavy with centuries of existence, that the universe couldn't contain the pressure anymore. It simply decided to give her hers early. The magic couldn't hold back the sheer weight of his timeline. He has been walking this earth, waiting, for hundreds of years. Maybe longer."

The realization hit the room like a physical blow. Camille sat perfectly still, her small heart hammering against her ribs as she listened to her adult family members talk about her destiny as if it were a curse from the swamps. She looked back down at her arm, at the elegant, sharp script that tasted like fire and shadow.

"Your oldest scotch for my two friends here, love."

A monster. Her uncle was saying her soulmate was an ancient monster who had been killing and walking the earth for centuries before she was even a thought in the universe. A great evil was bound to her flesh, waiting for her to grow old enough to be consumed by it.

"Absolutely not," Pete said, his voice dropping into a hard, vicious growl that Camille had never heard from her gentle father before. He walked over to the chair, grabbing Camille by her good arm and pulling her gently but firmly against his side. "I don't care about the spirits. I don't care about the magic or the hoops the universe wants us to jump through. I am not letting some ancient, corrupt thing drag my daughter into hell. We are not letting this happen."

"Pete is right," Mary said, her panic morphing into a cold, maternal ferocity. She rushed over, kneeling in front of Camille and taking her small hands. "Kieran, you know people. You know the witches in the Quarter. You know the ones who handle the boundaries. There has to be a way to fix this. There has to be a spell, a potion, anything to erase it!"

"You cannot erase a soulmark, Mary," Kieran said heavily, his eyes staring out the library window toward the dense, humid greenery of the Garden District. "To tear a soulmark away is to tear the soul itself. It would kill her, or leave her a hollowed-out shell."

"Then what do we do?!" Pete shouted, his hands tightening on Camille’s shoulders. "We just sit here and wait for this 'great evil' to come to New Orleans and claim our eight-year-old child? Look at the words, Kieran! He's a drinker, a violent man, a beast! We cannot let her live her life looking at this death warrant!"

Kieran was silent for a long, agonizing moment. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked loudly, a rhythmic, mechanical countdown that felt entirely too fast. Finally, Kieran turned back to them, a dangerous, calculated light gleaming in his eyes.

"We can't erase it," Kieran murmured, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. "But we can hide it. We can change what she sees."

Mary looked up, hope flashing in her tear-stained eyes. "Change it? How?"

"The local covens owe me favors," Kieran said, his mind already working through the political logistics of the supernatural underworld. "There are witches who specialize in illusions, in cloaking spells that can warp the perception of the flesh. We can't destroy the bond, but we can weave a powerful magic over the ink. We can bury these words so deep into her subconscious that she will never hear them, never feel them, and never look for them."

He stepped closer, looking down at Camille with an expression of profound, tragic pity.

"We will have a witch come to her room tonight," Kieran determined, his voice firm and absolute. "We will rewrite the script on her skin. We will turn this ancient monster’s demand into something entirely safe. Something ordinary. A phrase that a nice, human boy might say to her one day in a safe, normal life. We will give her a fake mark, and she will grow up believing in a wonderful love."

Camille looked from her uncle to her parents, her small mind struggling to grasp the weight of what they were planning. They were going to use magic to change her skin. They were going to hide the monster.

"Will it stop hurting, Uncle Kieran?" Camille asked, her voice cracking as she looked at the dark ink that felt like an iron weight. "

Kieran knelt back down, "Yes, cami. The fire will go away. You won't feel him anymore. You'll be safe. I promise you, as long as I have breath in my body, that great evil will never touch you."

Camille nodded slowly, letting out a shaky breath as her mother wrapped her in a tight, suffocating hug. She closed her eyes, trying to ignore the heavy, smoky taste in the back of her throat.

The bedroom was entirely too quiet. Outside the multi-paned glass windows of the O’Connell home, A ceiling fan whirled lazily overhead, its low, rhythmic ticking the only sound breaking the suffocating stillness of the dead of night.

In her small white bed, eight-year-old Camille was tangled in her sheets. Her forehead was slick with a cold sweat, her chest rising and falling in the shallow, erratic patterns of a child trapped in a fever dream. On her exposed left forearm, the stark, midnight-black ink of the true soulmark seemed to throb in the dark. It looked like an open wound against her pale skin, radiating a faint, unnatural heat that the room's air conditioning couldn't cool.

The door to the bedroom didn't creak when it opened. It simply drifted inward, a sliver of yellowish hallway light cutting across the pink carpet before a tall, heavy shadow blocked it out.

Father Kieran O’Connell stepped into the room, his jaw tightly set, his eyes hard and completely devoid of the gentle warmth he usually kept for his niece.

She was an older woman from the French Quarter covens, a practitioner who had spent decades bartering with the human faction to keep her people out of trouble. Her names and titles didn't matter tonight; only her hands did. She carried a small, velvet-lined satchel, and her fingers were stained dark from years of crushing dried roots, graveyard dirt, and volatile herbs. She took one look at the little girl on the bed, her eyes instantly fixing on the heavy, blocky script burning through the dark, and she let out a sharp, low hiss between her teeth.

"It’s too bright," the witch muttered, her voice a rough, dry whisper that barely carried across the room. "The magic in that ink is older than the foundations of this city, O’Connell. It’s got a pulse. You didn't tell me the boy’s mark was bleeding this much power into a mortal child."

"Does it change what you can do?" Kieran asked flatly. He stood by the foot of the bed, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. There was no hesitation in his voice, no tremor of doubt. He didn't look at Camille with pity. He looked at her arm as if it were a ticking bomb that needed to be dismantled before sunrise.

"No," the witch replied, stepping closer and dropping her satchel onto the nightstand beside a small plastic doll. "But it makes it nasty. It’s going to fight back. A soul-bond isn't a coat of paint, Father. It’s a root tied straight into the spirit. I can’t rip it out. If I try to erase it, the shock will stop her little heart before I’m halfway through the first word. You understand that?"

"I understand," Kieran said, his tone dropping into a cold, immovable register. "We aren't erasing it. We discussed this. Bury it. Cover it with something she can live with. I want that ancient thing hidden so deep she won't even feel the twitch of it when she grows up."

The witch gave a grim, humorless nod. She didn't waste time feeling bad for the girl, and neither did Kieran. It was a horrid, ugly business, using dark, binding magic on an eight-year-old child while she slept, but the alternative was letting a legendary monster drag their family name into a bloodbath. There was no room for guilt in the O’Connell house.

"Hold her shoulder down," the witch commanded, pulling a small silver knife and a vial of thick, cloudy grey oil from her bag. "If she wakes up or moves while I’m weaving the illusion, the script will distort, and she'll spend the rest of her life seeing gibberish."

Kieran didn't hesitate. He stepped up to the side of the bed, his large, heavy hands coming down onto Camille’s small shoulder and her right wrist, pinning her firmly against the mattress. His grip was unyielding, completely steady, the callouses on his fingers digging slightly into her skin to ensure she couldn't flinch.

The witch knelt by the edge of the bed, taking Camille’s left arm in her grip. The moment her fingers brushed the skin near the ink, a sharp, invisible spark zipped through the air, the scent of burning copper and heavy river mud instantly filling the small bedroom. The true mark was already fighting the intrusion.

"Your oldest scotch for my two friends here, love."

The letters seemed to writhe beneath the surface of her skin, the ancient, arrogant words of Niklaus Mikaelson pushing against the witch’s touch like an aggressive predator protecting its territory.

The witch didn't flinch. She uncorked the vial, pouring the thick grey oil directly over the black ink. The liquid sizzled, a faint wispy trail of black smoke rising toward the ceiling fan as she began to chant under her breath. The words weren't French or Latin; they were a low, guttural dialect of the old Bayou covens, a binding tongue designed to warp perception and tie illusions to the physical body.

With her thumb, the witch began to physically press down on the letters, dragging her skin across Camille’s forearm with a brutal, heavy pressure. She wasn't just rubbing the oil in she was physically forcing the magic of the bond to recede, pushing the ancient energy down into the deep, dark layers of Camille’s flesh, burying it beneath the bone.

Camille let out a sharp, strangled whimper in her sleep. Her eyes flew open, but they were rolled back, glassy and unseeing, caught in the grip of the heavy sleeping draft her mother had slipped into her milk hours before. Her small body convulsed, her left arm jerking violently as the white-hot heat of the spell tore through her nerves.

"Keep her still, O’Connell!" the witch hissed, her own face pale as she strained against the volatile energy of the Original's soul-print. "The thing on the other side is pushing! It feels like trying to cage a storm!"

Kieran leaned his full weight onto Camille’s shoulder, his face a mask of absolute, unbothered determination. "Do it," he said through his teeth. "Seal it."

The witch pressed harder, her thumb digging so deep into Camille’s forearm that the skin turned a dangerous, stark white. She began to draw new lines over the oil, her magic rewriting the visual layout of the flesh. She wasn't destroying the old text she was weaving a dark, dense optical cloaking spell over it, a spiritual illusion that would force Camille’s mind to interpret the ancient ink as something entirely different.

Slowly, horribly, the sharp, blocky, midnight-black characters of Klaus's true words began to sink. They melted downward, turning into a dull, smoky shadow that settled deep against the muscle, completely hidden from the light of the sun. And in their place, forced to the surface by the binding magic of the witch's chant, a new set of letters began to form.

The new ink was a soft, pale grey gentle, unthreatening, and entirely ordinary. The witch traced the illusion line by line, carving the lie into Camille’s perception until the fake words sat neatly in a single, harmless line across her young skin.

Is this seat taken, beautiful?

It was a perfectly safe, mundane sentence. The kind of generic, forgettable pick-up line a nice, human boy from Tulane or Loyola might say to her at a college mixer one day. It had no power. It had no ancient fire, no taste of smoke, and absolutely no connection to the supernatural underworld that threatened to swallow their family whole. It was a complete, fabricated lie, forced onto her body to ensure she would never recognize the monster if he ever crossed her path.

The witch let go of Camille’s arm with a sudden, gasping breath, stumbling backward against the nightstand. The silver knife clattered to the floor, and the heavy, suffocating pressure in the room instantly vanished, leaving only the stale smell of burnt oil and old sweat.

Camille went completely limp against the mattress, her eyes closing as she fell back into a deep, dreamless sleep. Her left arm lay still on the sheets, the pale grey text of the fake mark looking entirely peaceful, entirely normal.

Kieran slowly let go of her shoulder, standing straight and rolling his shoulders to break the tension. He looked down at the new words on her skin, his expression completely hard, completely satisfied. He didn't feel a single shred of remorse for what they had just done to the girl’s destiny. He had promised to protect his family, and as far as he was concerned, the lie on her arm was the greatest protection she would ever have.

"Will it hold?" Kieran asked, turning his sharp gaze to the witch.

"As long as she believes it," the witch breathed, wiping her bloody thumb on her skirt. "The illusion is tied to her mind, Father. She thinks that’s her mark, so that’s what her eyes will see. The true words are buried in the dark. If that monster ever speaks his real words to her, her ears won't even process the weight of them. The magic will keep her blind."

"Good," Kieran said, walking toward the door without looking back at the sleeping child. "Pack your things and get out through the back. We're done here."

The years passed over Seattle in a succession of heavy, rain-drenched summers and thick, humid autumns, each season bleeding into the next until the memory of that terrifying night in her childhood bedroom was completely buried beneath the mundane clutter of growing up. Camille O'Connell grew from a quiet, watchful little girl into a striking young woman with a halo of golden hair and a sharp, analytical mind. To the rest of the world, she was a perfectly normal girl from a prominent local family, moving through life with the easy confidence of someone who knew exactly where she fit in the grand scheme of things.

But beneath the surface, there was a quiet, hollow space that nothing could quite fill.

Every morning, from the time she was a teenager getting ready for high school in her days as an undergraduate student walking the oak-lined paths of the University, Cami looked at her left forearm. Every single morning, her eyes traced the neat, pale grey ink that sat just below the crook of her elbow, its gentle script spelling out the exact same ordinary phrase she had known for as long as she could remember:

Is this seat taken, beautiful?

She believed the lie completely. She had no reason not to. To Cami, those words were her destiny, a definitive promise from the universe that somewhere out there, a perfectly ordinary, nice human boy was waiting to cross her path in a crowded lecture hall or a quiet coffee shop. It was a safe sentence. It was a comfortable sentence.

And it left her entirely, profoundly numb.

As she entered her teenage years, Cami watched her peers experience the vivid, chaotic reality of the soul-bond system. She saw her high school friends walk around with a restless, electric energy, constantly complaining about the phantom warmth that would suddenly flare beneath their clothes whenever their distant soulmates were happy, or the sharp, sympathetic aches that throbbed in their bones when their other halves were injured. She watched girls in her dorm room stay up until the early hours of the morning, staring at their own marks as the ink tingled and pulsed with a magnetic, long-distance pull that grew stronger with each passing year. They talked about the bond as if it were a living, breathing entity a roaring fire that guided their every decision and made them feel connected to the universe even when they were completely alone.

Cami felt absolutely nothing.

Her mark never tingled. It never flared with a sudden, breathless heat in the dead of winter. It never throbbed with a distant, warning ache when the boy who owned the words was in danger. When she pressed her fingers against the pale grey letters, the skin felt exactly like the rest of her arm cool, still, and completely silent. Because the true, ancient bond had been violently suppressed and buried deep beneath her muscle by the witch’s cloaking spell, the natural spiritual current that was supposed to flow between soulmates was entirely choked off. The magic had created a perfect vacuum, an absolute wall of ice that kept her completely isolated from the massive, volatile soul of Niklaus Mikaelson.

This total lack of connection bred a strange, growing internal conflict that haunted her throughout her youth. For a long time, Cami thought there was something fundamentally wrong with her. She wondered if her soulmate was dead, or if the universe had simply made a mistake when it carved the words into her skin so early in her childhood. She felt like an alien operating in a world driven by a profound, instinctual romance she couldn't comprehend.

When boys at school approached her, trying to strike up conversations or asking her out on dates, Cami found herself analyzing them with a cool, detached scrutiny rather than feeling any actual spark of attraction. She would look at a boy's face, listen to his laugh, and wonder if he would be the one to eventually utter the mundane question on her arm. But even when she imagined the scenario, her heart rate never accelerated. The thought of fulfilling her destiny didn't bring her joy or anticipation; it just felt like a mechanical boxes-to-check exercise, a pre-written script she was obligated to perform.

This profound sense of detachment from the concept of romance and the soul-bond system didn't make her bitter, however. Instead, it ignited an intense, burning curiosity about the human condition.

Ironically, the very lie her family had forced upon her body pushed her directly into the arms of her true calling: psychology.

If she couldn't feel the magic that everyone else took for granted, she wanted to understand the mechanics of why people felt anything at all. If she was destined to live in a quiet, cool shadow while the rest of the world burned with the fire of the bond, she would master the study of the mind to compensate for what she lacked in her spirit. She wanted to know why human beings loved, why they feared, and how they constructed narratives to protect themselves from the overwhelming chaos of existence.

By the time she transitioned into her graduate studies, focusing her thesis on abnormal psychology and behavioral patterns, Cami had learned to view her quiet mark as a bizarre kind of blessing. She prided herself on her objectivity. While her fellow students were distracted by the emotional upheavals of their soul-bonds, making reckless decisions driven by the magnetic pull of the ink, Cami was steady. She was logical. She could sit in a room with a broken, grieving person and dissect their trauma with a compassionate, eye because her own heart was safely tucked behind a wall of absolute, unbothered stillness.

She had built a perfectly structured, academic life out of a complete fabrication. She walked through the world believing she was a normal girl with a boring, safe destiny, entirely unaware that the stillness in her chest wasn't a natural defect, but a cage. She had no idea that every time she looked at the pale grey letters on her arm, she was staring at a magical illusion designed to keep her from seeing the dark, heavy truth buried just beneath the surface. She was completely prepared for a life of quiet observations, utterly blind to the fact that the ancient, stormy entity her family had hidden from her was already moving back toward New Orleans, ready to shatter her carefully constructed logic with a single sentence.

The front room of Rousseau’s felt entirely too small, the air thick with the suffocating weight of a storm that refused to break over the French Quarter. Camille O’Connell kept her eyes fixed on the silver keys of the cash register, her fingers moving in a practiced, automatic rhythm as she adjusted a stack of crumpled dollar bills. She was working on pure survival instinct tonight, her mind a chaotic blur of grief, exhaustion, and intense irritation.

It had been months since the tragedy with her twin brother, Sean, but the hollow ache in her chest hadn't faded; it had just settled into a permanent, heavy weight. Every shift at the bar was a battle against the overwhelming noise of her own thoughts, and tonight, the universe was making it exceptionally difficult.

First, the kitchen had run completely out of the night's gumbo, forcing her to deal with a string of disappointed, demanding patrons. Then, those two deeply unsettling men had taken up residence at the far end of the mahogany counter. They had been shadowing a newcomer a man with a sharp British accent and a tailored jacket ever since he had emerged from the back hallway near the kitchen. The vibe radiating off the duo was predatory and smug, the kind of arrogant confidence that usually belonged to thugs who thought they owned the block.

When the British man had stepped up to the bar and threatened them with a low, chilling whisper about tearing out their spines, Cami hadn't even blinked. In a city like New Orleans, you learned to ignore the posturing of dangerous men if you wanted to keep your sanity. She had simply delivered her standard line about the kitchen running out of food, entirely unbothered by the thick aura of violence vibrating through the room.

The British man had quickly cloaked his irritation, his jaw tightening before his face smoothed out into a cold, perfectly composed mask. He had flashed a slow, dimpled smile that didn't reach his eyes, pinning her with an intense, burning scrutiny that felt like a physical weight pressing against her chest.

"Your oldest scotch for my two friends here, love," he had said, his voice a smooth, melodic purr that cut through the low background hum of the jukebox.

Cami had merely given a detached nod. She didn't argue, she didn't smile, and she didn't hesitate. She had turned around, pulled a dusty brown bottle of mid-tier scotch from the shelf, and poured two heavy slants into clean glasses, sliding them toward the two stunned day-walkers without a single word.

Now, walking away to the safety of the register at the opposite end of the bar, Cami let out a long, slow breath, turning her back on the trio completely. She wanted nothing more than for her shift to end so she could escape the heavy, damp heat of the room.

Exactly three steps into her walk, the universe fractured.

Deep beneath the pale skin of her left forearm, tucked safely away under the layers of muscle where the dark magic of the old coven spell had kept it buried for over fifteen years, the true soulmark violently revolted.

The ancient, midnight-black scripthidden entirely from her sight had recognized its master the exact millisecond the words left Niklaus Mikaelson’s lips. The absolute identity of the voice had slammed into the dormant ink like a lightning strike, triggering a frantic, desperate surge of spiritual energy that tried to rip its way through the cloaking spell to reach the surface.

A sudden, white-hot flash of heat exploded inside Cami's arm. It wasn't a gentle tingle or a warm flush; it was a sharp, searing pang that felt like a drop of boiling oil had been dropped directly onto her nerve endings. The sheer intensity of the sensation made her breath hitch, her fingers freezing against the cold metal of the cash register as a faint, phantom taste of heavy smoke and burning copper flashed in the back of her throat.

Her heart hammered a single, panicked thud against her ribs. For a fraction of a second, the protective vacuum she had lived in her entire life threatened to shatter, the massive, volatile current of the true bond clawing violently against the witch's boundaries.

But the illusion held.

The dark, binding cloaking spell her uncle had paid for all those years ago refused to break. It wrapped tighter around the true ink, suffocating the surge of energy and instantly forcing the ancient fire back down into the dark corners of her flesh, burying the connection before it could ever reach her conscious mind.

Cami closed her eyes for a brief moment, her left hand instinctively coming up to grip her forearm, her thumb pressing hard against the neat, pale grey letters she had looked at every morning of her life: Is this seat taken, beautiful?

She looked down at the fake script, her mind completely blind to the war that had just played out beneath her skin. She didn't think about the British man at the end of the bar. She didn't connect his casual drink order to her own destiny. To Cami, the words on her arm were an entirely different sentence, an entirely different life.

"Great," she muttered to herself, a weary, irritated sigh escaping her lips as she rubbed at the aching muscle. "Now I'm getting stress spasms."

She chalked the sudden, sharp pain up to sheer physical exhaustion and the suffocating tension of the room. She had been working double shifts, she wasn't sleeping because of the nightmares about Sean, and the creepy vibe of the patrons was clearly making her jumpy. It was just a localized muscle cramp brought on by dehydration and nerves.

Forcing her posture straight, Cami let go of her arm, shook out the tension in her fingers, and focused back on the stack of dollar bills in the register. She kept walking, moving further into the quiet safety of her own logic, entirely oblivious to the fact that she had just spoken the most monumental words of an ancient king's immortal life and left him standing in the shadows behind her, completely consumed by a confused and toxic fury.

[belladonnaslove]

Camille O'Connell kept a record of everything. Klaus Mikaelson just didn't know it until she was gone.

She started writing to understand him. She kept writing because she couldn't stop. By the end, she knew exactly who she was writing for. A Klamille fic told through Camille's journals, notes, and everything she left behind.

───────────────────────

The Fête des Célibataires.

11:47 Pm

Tim is playing something I don't recognize, but it doesn't matter. It's the kind of music that makes you stop whatever you're thinking about and listen. Davina looks like she might cry, and I don't think she knows it yet.

I don't know why I'm here… well, I guess I do; it's because of him. I don't quite understand it yet, but I do know whenever he's around, I feel compelled to do things I don't agree with.

He presents like someone who has never once been told no and built an entire personality around it. Textbook narcissistic defense mechanisms, but there's something underneath it I can't quite categorize yet.

I noticed how he did this for Davina and, at the same time, had ulterior motives that seemed right to him. I think deep down he wants someone to see him and why he does what he does.

There's something about the way he operates, like everything has a reason, even when the reason is wrong. It made me think about Sean. Maybe he didn't just go crazy out of nowhere; maybe he was forced, like I am. Maybe there is hope for Sean and I ca-

───────────────────────

Klaus sets the letter down, but not completely scared that if he does, Camille will truly be lost.

His finger rubbed the end of the page where her words got cut off. It perplexes him only for a moment. Until he realizes why she didn't finish.

Every detail from that night and every moment they ever had together, good or bad, was embedded deeper than his memory; it was embedded in his soul.

Klaus folded the letter and placed it carefully back in the box. His eyes were filled with regret, maybe sadness, even though he didn't quite know himself.

All he knew was that he had Camille for a short while, and he was going to continue to read the letters and cherish every moment of her.

[velvetfangsx]

Klaus has never done nicknames for people or for himself but he calls Camille, Cami per her request and it shows how much Klaus respected her and held in high regards in the beginning of them of their relationship

[klamille-is-real]

‘Nothing is perfect but your imperfections are quaint and your love is worth it and for that I will wait. And though you hate me, when you have a turn I drive you crazy but you always return.“

requested by anon

[velvetfangsx]

✧ klamille song edit series ✧

songs I associate with klamille [1/5] her - JVKE

[belladonnaslove]

I've been re-watching The Originals, and half of Season 1, episode 3 is Klaus and Camille stealing glances at each other or looking into each other's eyes like soul mates.

And literally, toward the end of the episode, they both almost kissed! Klaus literally said, "You read it quite well"

Klamille makes me lose my mind! I love them so much.

[lizzie-queenofmeigas]

Dark Cami and Klaus together would have actually slayed. If her brains and manipulation powers were user for evil Klaus would have had his wish about the whole world domination stuff.

[velvetfangsx]

[slavictear]

tfw you’re watching 13ry but you’re suddenly hit with klamille feels bc of the “THE NIGHT WE MET” song

[slavictear]

Remember back in 2x05 when klaus said to cami “you pulled the stake out in the nick of time.a little bit longer and I would have been done for.”

and now in 3x02 ,the situation repeats itself, and cami is the one who silences his demons,imagining cami is the one thing that kept him alive for so long during his suffering, his personal heaven, moments of solace,cami is the one who convinces klaus that his family needs him and thanks to her he manages to pull the papa tunde’s blade just in the nick of time.

[bakerolivias-archived-deactivat]

I crave the side of you that you don't show to anyone else.

[slavictear]

klaus&cami read as such doomed lovers from greek myths to me.... euridice and orpheus perhaps