and dressed like a white boy should

You always kind of have that person, that one person who you feel might interrupt your wedding and be like “Don’t do it cause we’re not over yet”...

I am not the kind of boy who should be rudely barging in on a white veil occasion but you are not the kind of girl who should be marrying the wrong boy

I sneak in and see your friends and his snotty little family all dressed in pastel, and he is yelling at a bridesmaid somewhere back inside a room, wearing a suit shaped like a pastry

This is surely not what you thought it would be, I lose myself in a daydream where I stand and say 

 Don’t say “Yes”, run away now I’ll meet you when you’re out of the church at the back door, don’t wait or say a single vow, you need to hear me out and they said, “Speak now.”

Fond gestures are exchanged and the organ starts to play a song that sounds like a death march, and I am hiding in the curtains it seems that I was uninvited by your lovely groom-to-be

He floats down the aisle like a pageant king but I know you wish it was me,
You wish it was me, don’t you?

I hear the preacher say, “Speak now or forever hold your peace.”
There’s the silence, there’s my last chance, I stand up with shaky hands, all eyes on me, horrified looks from everyone in the room
But I’m only looking at you

I am not the kind of boy who should be rudely barging in on a white veil occasion but you are not the kind of girl who should be marrying the wrong boy 

So, don’t say “Yes”, run away now, I’ll meet you when you’re out of the church at the back door, don’t wait or say a single vow, you need to hear me out, and they said, “Speak now.”

And you say, “Let’s run away now, I’ll meet you when I’m out of my dress at the back door, baby, I didn’t say my vows, so glad you were around when they said, “Speak now.”

Only If For A Night

A little Halloween spookiness for Bellarke, with some help from Florence + the Machines.


i. bloody feet, hallowed ground

She cannot get the blood off of her feet, and that is the most frustrating part. It should be the lack of corporality, or the restriction of her presence to the graveyard, but no, it is the blood. Not even her blood, though that does stain the front of her white dress plenty, blooming outward from her middle like the petals of a macabre rose. The mess on her feet isn’t hers, but it is her fault. So many dead at her hands; it should be written into her fingerprints at this point. Instead, the guilt is on the pads of her feet, marking her steps in the dark (only in the dark) as she walks among the headstones, a ghostly reminder of just exactly what she leaves in her wake.

There is no until-death-do-us-part clause for her and her guilt.

Clarke gladly takes that burden though, heavy as it and its price is. She carries it with each rise and fall of the moon, centuries after her death, when the rest of her coven lies deep beneath the earth, their skeletons home for beetles now. It is easy to picture the glittering black against the bleached bone, because she herself is wavering white against inky night. Centuries lay behind her, and more stretch before her, yet her entire world is reduced to two stark shades.

Except for the red, the blood, a splash of life in the midst of purgatory. Even so, she still hates the way it drips from her hem onto her stained toes, a loop as endless as her trips around the decrepit graves. Immortality seemed like a gift when she was a witch, when she belonged to the living. Now, she bears it because she has to.

So when he shows up, a dark silhouette in the midnight fog that doesn’t quite fit in with the rest of the graveyard shadows she knows so well by now, it shocks her. Change shocks her now, when she used to be the very source of change, wielder of power so potent it rattled her ribcage and made her skin crawl. Surprised as she is, she drifts into his path, hovering above the gravel walkway that he races down as if the hounds of hell are at his heels.

“Get out of my way,” he growls, barely halting in time.

His fangs flash in the moonlight, but it is the anger and terror in his dark eyes that catch her attention instead.

Keep reading

The only fashion advice novice boys need to know

There’s no absolute expectation to dress fancy, but if you do, do it right.

Your shoes should match your belt, your socks should not be white, and you shouldn’t wear black with brown.

You may be tempted to wear a shirt with a vest over it. Don’t. You’ll look like a bartender, or a magician who does kid’s birthday parties

If you want good clothes for cheap, ebay is your friend.

You really only need a blue dress shirt, a white dress shirt, a black tie and a red tie.

If you need a suit, get a grey one. 2 or 3 button. Not black: black is traditionally for cocktail parties, weddings, and funerals.

There’s no need to learn a knot fancier than the basic 4 in hand. If you absolutely MUST learn another knot, do the Half-windsor or the Shelby-Pratt. if you tie your tie wrong, re-tie it. Don’t walk around with a tie that’s too long or too short.

I wanted to share a quick story. This one goes out to all the anti-feminists who think women should shut up about dress codes (ignoring the fact that it’s usually about the sexist logic used to reinforce dress codes, but whatever)

I went to a private school that had a uniform. Girls wore plaid skirts and boys wore slacks and everyone wore white button downs. I liked uniform because I didn’t have to think about what I was putting on in the morning.

Well one day I was at lunch in my skirt cleaning a table. I have a fairly curvy body, so pretty much all skirts ever ride up on me because hips. As such, I always wore spandex under my skirts, just in case. We had a rule regulating skirt length on the back of the knee, and when pulled down properly and measured, all my skirts followed it. But after sitting down for lunch, my skirt had ridden up. And bending over to clean the table didn’t help. A teacher walked up to me, yelling, and grabbed my arm forcefully. I was then dragged, crying to the head of upper school’s office to have my skirt measured (it passed). I was a senior at the time.

One might assume that this is just how my school treats its dress code. Unfortunately, that’s not the case. A few days later, a close male friend of mine came to school wearing sweatpants and a t shirt. All he got was a question about whether he’d been too lazy to put on his uniform and a jovial laugh. I frequently saw boys blatantly violate the dress code like this and get off with a warning. Girls were regularly held back from recess in middle school for skirt checks.

Tell me again how dress codes don’t discriminate.

the 100: *kills POC for ‘shock value,’ puts white protags in brown face and dresses them in appropriative costumes, hypersexualize/slut shame/brutalize the latin@ character, chains and brutalizes a black man while simultaneously sexualizing him, sidelines the asian men and make them subservient to 1.) the mediocre white boy who should have fucking died 1x01 and 2.) the white woman who insists that she needs you, abandons you, and then comes back thinking she can carry on like before, makes the Angry Black Woman™ subservient to her white superior*

fandom: ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ *continues to worship l.3xa*

the 100: *kills off l.3xa*

fandom: *composes a masterfully-written dissertation on why the 100 is problematic*

me: ¯\_(ツ)_/¯