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Hi! Thank for you sending the ask! Honestly I wasn’t expecting an ask, but here are a few things I usually find helpful when it comes to writing an Indian character and things to keep in mind when you do so! (I also sometimes have a struggle with writing Indian characters because I don’t have many Indian people around me and that I never lived in India growing up, but that’s totally okay!)

How to start building an Indian character:

- So the first thing would be determine their region, the region in which they are from will play a large role in who they are as a character, their way of speaking, accents (if you choose to give them one) little quirks they might have, the food they eat, the languages they might speak etc. )
- Then comes religion, you can choose whether you want to touch on it or not, but if the story is set in Indian religion has a large role in Indian society (but that doesn’t mean you have to follow the rule of having a character overcome problems due to their religion, their religion can matter but it doesn’t have to be the center of the plot)
- Once you’ve set region and religion, then you can look at the age, gender, sexuality etc. Try to give your characters personality, don’t base them off of mainstream media stereotypes. Give them interests, dreams and goals just like you would for any other character while still keeping in mind of their background!

Of course all of this also depends on where you decide to set your story, whether it takes place in India itself or somewhere else. And if your character is mixed race, eg. if they are half white don’t be afraid to give them a darker skin tone and eyes! (Pro tip: if you’re writing an Indian character for the first time, go with something familiar first, have them be from the same region as you are or the same religion as you so it makes it easier to write but once you get practice you can expand your horizons but still keep in mind to talk to those people who’s regions, religions, sexualities you’re talking about)

But but if you are thinking of creating an imaginary race based off of the Indian race, then things can get a little complicated.

The first thing is that Indian is a large country with thousands of different cultures, which means creating an imaginary race based off of a country with the second largest population can make it very tricky because you would have to include many cultures in one large group and this can easily get overwhelming. So, instead of focusing on all of Indian try focusing on a specific state of region. So to narrow it down. 

Second thing to keep in mind is that whether you want to keep this race of people humans (human looking) or not, if you decide them to not be human then creating them to look like monkeys, elephants and other animals that could be deemed harmful, different regions will find different animals to be offensive. 

That’s all I can think of at the moment, if any one has anything to add then feel free to do so! I hope this was helpful and not too confusing. 

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I have a story all planned out in my head.

I even wrote a (very shitty, very basic) outline.

I’ve been dreaming it up in my head for days, and i think it’s gonna be very good.

But i can’t make myself actually write it. Every time i pull up Google Docs, i just stare at it.

I need a scribe.

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The best part about writing one of my OCs is getting to mash together idioms for dialogue. For instance, I just came up with “Well, I’m not the sharpest crayon in the shed.”

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I know wound cauterization is kind of a staple trope, but it leans on a rather useless notion of what one ought to actually do to a wound, and is needlessly painful for little to no benefit (and a whole lot of downsides.) 
For greater accuracy, contemporary wound care, and less chance of gangrene, may I offer the substitute of wound irrigation instead. 
In this application of questionable literary medicine, still fitting the needs of your hold-you-down-and-hurt-you-more-to-heal-you plots, instead of burning over a wound, the wound is held open and washed thoroughly with clean, cold water.

It hurts. It hurts, think full-body sudden flight-or-fight response, all limbs twitching, and if one is given to screaming, then a really good scream. And after that, the wound is clean, the capillaries are shrunk, bleeding is reduced, and the surrounding skin is numbed slightly and ready for stitching. Perfect! Your character can now slump there exhausted and shivering, feeling the burning pinprick of the suture needle through their cold wet skin, the tug and draw of each knot, without having a giant open weeping burn to deal with too.

Because that’s the point, isn’t it, to make two people who care about each other share the moment’s trauma of causing and receiving additional pain as part of the healing process? :P (And as someone who has had their stab wounds irrigated and stitched, I can verify the general accuracy of all this.) 

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Now that I’m actually starting to put more focus on world building, I’m almost tempted to start a blog dedicated to my demon OC Aria and the world she lives in… It is, very tempting.

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AN: Despite the migraines, I managed to get this chapter done within a week. Amazing what you can do when you decide to screw perfection and just have fun with your writing. Anyway, enjoy~ :’3

Warnings: Some violence, blood, a curse word here or there. Nothing too graphic, I don’t think.

Ao3 | Wattpad | Inkitt | FictionPress


Chapter 18:

Eishirou stayed close to Zayne’s back as they ascended the stairs. Zayne insisted of going first in case there were a couple of unexpected trips or traps waiting for them. Their only source of light was a simple lantern that Zayne held in front of him. But it offered them enough illumination.

The stairs were made from stone and appeared to be in pretty good condition, despite a couple of broken fragments here or there. They were sturdy. Even so, as they ventured higher, Eishirou felt his nervousness grow, too. So much so that he reached out to snare the back of Zayne’s jacket.

Who knows how old the building was.

Keep reading

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What is your problem? Why can’t you just leave me alone?”

“The whole world is at stake here. We need your help.”

“The world never gave me anything. The world can fend for itself, just like I had to.”

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“How are you always injured? Do you dodge in front of the bullets?”

“You know how in movies bad guys will let off a hundred shots and inexplicably never hit the good guys? This is not the movies.”

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Hold my hand and tell me we’re okay.

I’ve been here before, do you recognize this place?

I do, it’s like a crystal clear house of mirrors.

No entrance, no exit. Just two people in one confined space.

Watching each other’s expressions, listening to each other’s heartbeats and deep, exaggerated breaths.

It’s a house of mirrors and there’s no shapes or sizes. Just a jagged piece of glass showing us our distorted features.

I swear it’s getting clearer, even more so than before.

Have you heard of this place? No but now that we’re here, what’s the harm with settling in?

We can stay indoors, safe from the outside, safe from people. It’s crystal clear so we won’t get bored.

Who needs a room full of toys when we’re safe in our own skin, after all it’s all we can afford.


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TW// mention of suicide , suicide note

Drafts on top of drafts, piling on top of even more drafts. So many times I folded the same sheet of crinkled, tear-stained lined paper in that old fashioned way so that it would neatly fit in to an envelope. So many times I wrote the date and erased it because something else came up. So many times I tried writing my reasons and ended up with calluses covering my palms and my fingers colored white because I was holding my pen too tightly. I’ve written that goddamn note more than enough times to know it like the back of my hand. I could recite it like a cheerful poem and I doubt anyone would be able to tell that it’s the suicide note of a 16 year old and not just another sappy, broken hearted poem.


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I was writing in my journal, thinking of loved ones I’ve lost. Friends I never said a real goodbye to, acquaintances that stopped asking for answers to tonight’s math homework. One thing they all have in common, amongst many things, I never said goodbye. I never got the closure that I needed to truly move on. Even now, I feel stuck because time felt so slow when I was living it and now it’s passed and I see just how fast time is when you’re not truly living. I never said a proper goodbye to my late loved ones. I didn’t hug my friends tight enough the last time we were together. I decided to keep my answers to myself because I spent too long working just to give them away so easily. So many insignificant things cloud my mind and the one thing that never seems to stick is how to say goodbye.


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Thanks to @raevenlywrites for the tag.  

I need to go before I either vomit or slap Mayla.  “Let’s go, Crister,” I order.  

No pressure tagging @gwens-fiction @joyful-soul-collector @azuwrites and @violetwrites

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There’s days when I know what I’m doing wrong and then there’s days where I’m absolutely blinded by everything. Some days I’m so clueless that I genuinely worry if I need more help than I’m getting. I’m out of place and I’m more lost than I ever was. I keep making the same promises over and over again—“I promise I’ll do better”, “I’m fine, I promise”, “I’ll try to be here for you”— and it always only leads to more self hate. I’m shit at keeping promises, I’m shit at being there, I’m shit at trying. This is my apology to everyone in which I’ve made a broken promise: I’m sorry for not doing better and I wish you find whatever you need to be happy as soon as possible.


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This one was so cute not to do!


Being only eleven years old on a unfamiliar train, on your way to an unfamiliar place, can be pretty terrifying. Espically when people know who you are and you don’t know anyone.

Harry Potter sat alone in a small compartment wondering how on earth he got where he is. Don’t get him wrong he’s way happier alone on a train full of kids he didn’t know, then with the Dursleys, although the terrifying feeling was different then before it was still there.

The quiet was almost deafening, but if he opened the compartment door he was worried something would happen he didn’t know what exactly he just knew he felt safe in the familiarity of a small space. That is however until the door slid open, making Harry jump.

A platinum blond boy about his height made his way inside and shut the door.

“Is it okay if I sit here?” The boy that Harry didn’t know the name of asked, Harry nodded in reply, rubbing his hands together anxiously.

“I’m Malfoy, Draco Malfoy. What’s your name?”

“Hello, I’m Harry Potter.”

“The Harry Potter? Wow.”

Harry didn’t really know how to respond to that so he just nodded, looking out the window to avoid eye contact.

“So why are you sitting all by yourself? I would of thought you’d have instant friends, with your last name.” Draco asked, and Harry couldn’t tell if he was being malicious or not.

“I don’t know anyone, I was raised by muggles.” Harry shrugged. “What about you?”

“My friends were being bloody prats so I decided to ditch them, Draco smirked.

Harry smiled back softly.

A beat of silence fell over them until the compartment door opened again, a ginger headed boy stepped in and took a look at Draco and Harry.

"All the other compartments are full, do you mind if I sit with you two? The names Ron by the way, Ron Weasley.”

“Sure you can have my seat.” Harry offered, getting up and sitting in the empty space next to Draco.

“A Weasley? I should of guessed.” Draco scoffed, gaining the other twos attention.

“What was that Malfoy?” Ron demanded more then asked.

“That was a bit rude Draco.” Harry spoke up for Ron, gaining a small smile from the fiery headed boy.

“You’re right, I’m sorry I was being a prat, hello Ron.” Draco apologized as sincerely as Harry thought the slightly arrogant boy could.

“S'kay Malfoy.” Ron shrugged, letting it slide this one time.

Another silence fell over the trio, it seemed like it would stay that way until Ron cracked a joke that even had Draco laughing and suddenly it seemed as if the three had been best friends for years.

However Draco couldn’t help but notice the way Harry kept anxiously rubbing his hands together, it was a constant action the blond noticed and it got to the point where even the small eleven year old couldn’t take it anymore.

“Um…can I….hold your hand?” Draco asked unsurely, looking at the messy raven haired boy.

Harry’s face flushed and Ron gave the two an odd look.

“I…um….sure.” Harry nodded, reaching his hand out a little and opening his palm to let Draco intertwine thier fingers together which he did.

“Its okay if you’re nervous Harry, I’m nervous too.” Draco smiled, giving Harry a reassuring look.

“Really?” Harry asked, Draco nodded.

“I’m bloody terrified.” Ron chimed in. Making all three laugh.

“But I won’t have any friends, I’m alone.” Harry frowned.

Both Draco and Ron gave him an incredulous look.

“We’re your friends Harry.” Ron replied, standing up and squishing into the seat on Harry’s other side and grabbing his free hand.

“But what if we’re not all in the same house?” Harry questioned.

“It doesn’t matter where we end up, we’ll be friends no matter what.” Draco assured.

“Even you two?” Harry asked looking between Draco and Ron. Ron and Draco looked at each other for a moment before smiling a goofy smile.

“Yeah I think I can tolerate the weasle for a little while.” Draco chuckled.

“If I’m a weasle you’re a ferret! But yeah I suppose I could deal with the ferret.” Ron laughed back.

“Alright then it’s settled, friends for life.” Harry smiled, squeezing both boys hands.

“Friends for life!” Draco and Ron agreed.

Harry didn’t even realize he wasnt scared anymore, and soon the laughter and friendly banter died down and all three boys fell asleep holding hands as they waited to arrive to their new school with many adventures ahead of them.


Ahhhh I hope you like the AU Ron, Harry, and Draco as friends!!! It was so wholesome to write!!!! Anyway feedback is always appreciated! And as always all my love 💕

-bee c

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why don't my stories get more than 20 hits?
also me
writes stuff that only caters to two people and one of them is me
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Why do you romanticize mental illness? Why do you wish to live with a burdening disease that leaves you restless and torn? It’s not fun. I waited so many months before I confessed my emotions and troubles to my mom and she shushed me, telling me I was acting crazy. You don’t want that. You don’t want to romanticize being ignored by your own parent. You don’t want to be silenced when coming forward.


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relief was something bright

and my chest breathed

in a new familiar breath

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The scent of fresh brownies drifts through the air like the liquid light of late afternoon. Clean countertops, dishes done, dream man.

This you have done for me.

The smell of fresh earth mingles and mixes with the sweetness of chocolate, tainting it like the metallic of blood. A buried lover I couldn’t shake, a grave in my soul, a fresh start.

This I have done for you.

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