Why Don’t You Like Contraception?

types of academia pt. 2

art: paint dried at the cuffs of your favorite jacket, ink smudged hands, your notebooks are just sketchbooks for your class doodles with notes crammed in between the drawings, sudden revelations, wanting to create something meaningful with your own two hands, thinking of pygmalion during your sculpting class, reading a book and coming across that one sentence that sparks the inspiration for your next piece, afternoons on a soft green hill sketching, the scent of jasmine on the breeze, the music blaring in your headphones is all you can hear or feel as you work through the night, laying under the starlight

writer: the sound of a pen against parchment, the glow of a computer screen in a dark room, the sound of a clock ticking away the hours, reading with a hunger that will only be satisfied once you can give shape to your own words, empty notebooks, notebooks full of poetry, forgotten ideas that were not written down, your notes app is full of poetry, rainy days full of time spent typing away, living every experience in its rawest fork because you know you can write about it later, “write what you know” so you try to know everything, dreaming through your characters eyes, you and the moon have become good friends after nights spent writing under her light and reading your prose out loud

romantic: sketches of your love in a sketchbook that’s falling apart, singing to the moon at night, reciting sonnets alone in the woods, linen and silk, bathed in golden light, wax seals on love letters, pressed flowers in a journal, wanting to catch the stars and put them in the eyes of the one you love, the sweet scent of roses, ivy crawling up a cobblestone wall, a garden full of statues and plants that flint silver in the moonlight, sweet milk tea, daydreaming in a meadow

sci-fi: stargazing is a personality trait, deteriorating copies of sci-fu novels, coffee stained science magazines, a cork board full of conspiracies, squinting at the sky in search of life, believing there’s something more, tangled headphones, leather-bound dream journal, fog filled nights, psychoanalyzing, sticky note with the names of different theories scribbled on it that you need to research later, scrolling through wikipedia pages under your blanket when you should be sleeping, walkie talkies, a head full of wonder

urban: city lights blazing like stars, briskly walking down streets through the crisp air, drizzle fogging your glasses, hands in the pockets of a frayed coat, the overt dichotomy of light and dark, shadows in alleys and buzzing neon signs, dim bars and lit apartment windows, a small book shop crammed between a starbucks and bank, going to a vintage movie theater at the center of the city, mornings spent at the museum that’s free before noon, nights snuggled up in a blanket in your small, overpriced apartment as you read a book near the window and watch the city breathe

pt. 1

A story should entertain the writer, too.

Stephen King (via writingdotcoffee)

I 

may

have 

just 

gotten 

a 

publishing

offer

forbidden fruit | chapter 2

here’s chapter two! this is dedicated to @stardustsroses , happy (late) birthday my love!! <3

masterlist | ao3 | part 1

tags: @staticpetrichor @stardustsroses @nalgenewhore​ @illyrianbeauty @mariamuses @nomattertheoceans @vivorsomething @b00kworm @maastrash @lost-in-fictionn @acourtofabsandillyrians @ladywitchling 

***

Cassia.

Her named suited her. Soft. Ethereal.

Awkwardly, Manon extended her hand in an offer to help her up from her cowered position. Cassia’s stare immediately glued to the razor sharp nails curving wickedly from her pale fingers.

“I won’t hurt you,” she repeated again, cursing the touch of shame that sent a pang down to her very core. Since when did she feel bad about her terrifying exterior?

Cassia visibly swallowed, nodding hesitantly before accepting Manon’s hand, her body so light Manon barely had to exert any energy pulling her up.

“Um, I-” she stammered, timidly meeting her gaze. “Thank you for not killing me.”

Keep reading

me when i look @hockey boys.

to all my writer friends out there.

i just think they’re neat

Me, Squinting at my writing: What perspective are you even in??? Are you even in a perspective??

My writing:

Monica Rambeau throughout the years