camille young

Sam Winchester in kindergarten talking about his big brother Dee and how he takes care of him when Dad’s gone. Describing Dean like a superhero who makes him Mac and cheese and reads him books before he goes to sleep. Sam’s teacher hearing all of this and thinking how great it is that Sam has this older brother who’s looking out for him.

Then one day, the teacher hears Sam call the nine year old who picks him up after school Dee and she finally understands that Dee isn’t some superhero, he’s just a little boy looking out for his even littler brother.

By the time, she reports Sam’s situation to the higher ups, the impala is already packed up and the Winchesters are on their way to another town.

The Selection Series Alphabet: Y is for the Young Generation (A.K.A. Eadlyn’s Generation)

After the One, our favorite characters give birth to amazing children who grow through the walls of the Palace.

The First is Kile Woodwork, born one year after Maxerica’s wedding. He is the child of Marlee Tames and Carter Woodwork. Currently, he is fighting in Eadlyn’s Selection. He is a bookworm and wants to become an architect.

The Seconds are Eadlyn and Ahren, born two years after the One first epilogue. They are the children of America Singer and Maxon Schreave. The first one is the next Queen of Illéa and the Second one is the new prince consort of France by marrying…

…The Third one, Camille, daughter of Daphné, childhood friend of Maxon. She is herself the next Queen of France. Even if she doesn’t grow up in the Illéa Palace, she have a big part in the Schreave’s kids childhood and in Ahren’s heart.

The Fourth are Josie and Kaden. Josie is the youngest child of Marlee and Carter and Kaden the second son of America and Maxon. Josie is seen as a eccentric and a totally girly girl. Kaden, him, is describe by Eady as a genius boy for his age.

The Fifth and Last One is Osten, the yougest boy of America and Maxon. He is a trickster and he is a really cute and protective brother for Eadlyn, even if he is younger than her.

(Thanks to @maxericaruleillea for the idea!)

Camille Marty as Young Lena Luthor in Supergirl 2x12, “Luthors.”



okay but like

-I hate children
-I’ve always hated children
-I hated children even when I was a child
-I’ve never wanted children
-The thought of personally having a child and being responsible for one freaks. me. out.

I WANT TO SCOOP THIS LITTLE GIRL UP IN A HUG, LOVE HER, NEVER LET HER GO, AND GIVE HER EVERYTHING SHE NEEDS

HAVE YOU EVER SEEN A SMILE MORE EARNEST!?!?!?!?
THAT WAS RHETORICAL THE ANSWER IS NO.

All These Shattered Stars

My #backtobadlands project for halseydaily 

Inspired by the amazing lyrical poetry that is Halsey.

A vinagette about a Young God

All These Shattered Stars

And here he is in front of me. This beautiful boy, telling me again that he doesn’t want to be anything beautiful anymore. But what he doesn’t understand that his beauty is in his faults. He wants to be sad but when he is he is everything he tries so hard not to be. There is so much beauty in his sadness. I can see the treachery of it written all over his face.

He tries to hide himself behind the smoke and the shadows. He can’t help himself.  He hates everything that he’s worked so hard to become. Everything everyone’s wanted him to become. He’s revered by everyone but himself. His heart is so heavy he has to remove it from his body, but he forgets that he wears it on his sleeve where I can see it.

His blond hair, his leather jacket, his torn up jeans, he is only eighteen. His lulling voice, his gracious dreams, his named signed in jet black ink, he was only fourteen. His secret stash, his shots in the morning, how old will God allow him to be?

All these shattered stars, shifting and collecting like dust. Forming constellations that look like people and words that make them sound like themselves. But it’s all just a facade-if you touch them they crumble, nothing more than a mess of broken flesh and bone. Nothing more than a story so twisted and warped it’s disgusting, these people living in a city where glory is nothing more than gore. Where lying makes you desirable and honesty makes you weak and the game is seeing who takes the longest to break.

Tears fall down his face in silence but there’s no light in the room for me to see them. I wouldn’t even know he was crying if it wasn’t for his shaking shoulders. I want to take his hand in mine and tell him that he’s real, he’s there, he’s alive, but I don’t think that he would believe me if I did.

“Arabella?” he says my name like a question that pains him to answer. I say his like a prayer. “Caden.”

           “I can’t do this.” He pulls his black sweater over his hands so that his entire body is a shadow. He looks like a fallen angel with his blond curls and cloak of darkness. Will he ever be able to stand again on his own two feet?

           I sink to the floor next to him so that the sides of our bodies are pressed against each other like pages of a book, all the words unsaid stuck in between us. I want to hold him so badly that my hands shake.

           When he speaks again I can feel his  hot breath on my skin and I worry that he’s already left me, that I’ve lost him before I could even begin trying to find him.

           His words don’t mean anything; they’re the same as all the others he whispers for me to hear. Self-deprecating and twisted, as if all the words he says against himself would get me to leave him alone so that he can wallow in peace. As if all the words in the world would stop me from loving him. He says he doesn’t deserve me, that I’m too good for him. He won’t even look at me. He doesn’t understand that he’s hurting me more than he’s hurting himself, that he’s just a tumbling paradox.

           I have to bring him back to me, to the world. The words don’t work so I climb into his lap and rest my forehead against his, begging him to look at me.

           “Open your eyes.” I try and command, but my voice cracks and then I don’t know whose tears are whose because suddenly I’m sobbing, upset with myself for letting him see me this way. He needs to know that I won’t shatter when I’m near him, needs to know that I’m strong enough for the both of us.

           His eyes are open now, heartbreakingly blue like the sky just after it’s rained. His arms are around my waist, keeping me close. I don’t know who is holding onto who, just that we are doing our best not to fall.

           “See?” he says. Even though he can’t help himself from wiping my eyes with his sleeve and now I’ve just made myself another reason as to why he’s horrible, another reason as to why he’s anything but human. I am thunder and rain, pounding on his chest, filled with a fury so fierce that I want to yell and stomp and smash things.

           Instead, I push him back against the wall and attempt to get him to understand with a kiss. He doesn’t want to let himself kiss me, I can tell because he tries to push me off at first but I won’t let him and then a part of his wall crashes down and for a second, a minute even, we are no longer thinking, just being.

           “You need to let yourself love me.” I tell him, forcing his eyes on mine. “You need to let me save you.”  

But how are you supposed to save someone who wants nothing more than to drown? How are you supposed to talk to someone who doesn’t want to listen?

           “I can’t.” he tries to say, but I won’t let him, will only hear the “I can” and erase the rest with my lips. My fingers dig into his shoulders, afraid of where we’ll go if I make the mistake of letting go.

           I’m a hurricane of desperate passion and he’s a vial of subdued emotion. I need him like some people need religion, like I’m sinning whenever I’m without him. He believes he deserves to go to hell so he refuses to say penance and utter “I’m sorrys.”

           He listens to his demons and their whispers. He lets them tear him apart piece by piece, until when he looks in the mirror he can’t see anything he recognizes staring back. I know because I watch him when he’s alone and no one is looking. He’s let them determine who he can and cannot be.

           I run my fingers through his hair, trying to work some sort of sense into his mind. I don’t know what to do.

           “I can’t.” he gets out, voice weak but sure.

           I don’t say anything, just clutch him until dawn fits her fingers through the blinds and I’m forced to watch him disappear in the light like smoke. She gives him a harangued smile and some sense to his disheveled hair, but she can’t fix what’s inside. He leaves me that morning with stardust in my hair. I hate her for taking him away, for pretending she can fix him so easily, even though she leaves him covered in cracks. But I know that when night comes he’ll be back, broken and barred, but here. He’ll be back, dirty and covered in tears. He’ll be back.

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i’ll be a better man today.