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notpetemitchell · 21 days ago

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My favorite OCs and everything about them!

each character card matches their personality :)

Michael Melnic 𖤐

𖤐 Age: 17

𖤐 Pronouns: he/him

𖤐 MBTI: INFP

𖤐 Zodiac: Cancer ☾

𖤐 Aesthetic: soft band tees, wrist wraps, scattered MySpace blog posts, poetry scribbled in notebooks, wheelchair wheels glittering under lights, quiet smiles, eyeliner-stained pillowcases, shaved head, scars like constellations

𖤐 Playlist: My Chemical Romance, Radiohead, early Paramore, static from late-night TV

𖤐 Hobbies (before + after):

‣ Drawing spaceships and girls with swords

‣ Writing lyrics he never shows anyone

‣ Learning to write with his left hand

‣ Relearning how to walk, talk, and remember

𖤐 Loves:

‣ Virginia (Ginny) Schuler (has the world's biggest crush but won't admit it)

‣ His sisters, especially Sophie, who understands what it's like to be different

‣ Stars and flight

‣ The smell of clean hospital sheets (he won’t admit it)

𖤐 Fears:

‣ Forgetting who he used to be

‣ Being looked at like a tragedy

Marsean Estelle ☽

Name: Marsean

Age: Looks 17 — Actual age unknown

Species: ?? (Humanoid… mostly.)

Origin: Somewhere past the sound barrier and silence.

✧ Appearance:

・Hair: silver, soft like light through fog

・Eyes: sharp green, like something alive in a dead world

・Skin: pale, smooth—almost too smooth

・Clothing: ill-fitting Earth clothes, layered like armor

・Scars: hidden, but not absent

✧ Quirks:

・Stares at the stars like they’re home

・Touches everything like he’s memorizing it

・Talks like he’s translating from another language

・Heartbeats confuse him

"The Earth was once believed to be the center of the universe. Ancient scientists insisted that the Earth remain static while the other celestial bodies revolved around it. Marsean is Earth, and the rest of us are little ants, dancing around him."

⸻ David “Dave” Schuler ⸻

"Steel in his bones, honey in his heart."

Age: 47 Zodiac: Taurus Occupation: ROTC Instructor | Former Marine 🎖️ Veteran of War — Earned the scars. Kept the tenderness.

✦ VIBE Earth-toned flannels. Worn-in boots. Hands that know work, but hold a baby like glass. The scent of cedarwood and old cologne. Quiet strength wrapped in a weathered embrace. Eyes that have seen war yet and still chose gentleness.

✦ AESTHETIC

Old dog tags hanging beside a baby’s pacifier

Porch swings at sunset

A wallet full of family photos

The low rumble of a truck pulling into the driveway

Fresh coffee in a chipped mug, with “#1 Dad” scribbled in marker

A hand steady with a rifle, and steady holding a braid

Military tattoos hidden under flannel

A tough jaw, softened by a daughter’s kiss

✦ PERSONALITY ➤ Protective to the core. ➤ Will drop everything for Ginny—his princess. ➤ Quietly selfless. Pays extra for his daughter’s salon even though she tells him not to. ➤ Soft spot for kids. Treats all of Ginny’s friends like family. Especially the ones who never had one.

✦ LOVES

Ginny (his baby, his world)

Evangeline (his anchor, his heart)

His family, chosen and blood alike

Fixing things with his hands

Sunday pancakes and noisy kitchens

Protecting the people who need him

𓆩 RONAN’S STUPID LITTLE BIO (BECAUSE PEOPLE KEEP ASKING) 𓆪

✦ Name: Ronan Steelinger (yes, that’s really my last name) ✦ Age: 29 ✦ Pronouns: he/him, always ✦ Gender: trans guy, thanks for noticing ✦ Disabilities: chronic illness, one leg down — still better than you at Mario Kart

✦ Vibes: bad handwriting, big feelings, bigger hoodie coffee that went cold three hours ago limping but thriving books in my backpack just in case

✦ Stuff I Think People Should Know About Me: ‣ I tic. Deal with it. No, I’m not possessed. ‣ My leg’s fake. No, you can’t touch it. ‣ I teach high school and I like it. My students are the only people on earth who actually get me. ‣ I’m married. Yes, someone actually wanted this disaster. Her name’s Flora and she’s the sun. ‣ My favorite color changes every week. Right now it’s some weird in-between purple-blue I saw on a bug.

✦ Currently Listening To: – my own voice tic’ing “stop looking” in the grocery store – Mitski, Snot, and the Spider-Verse soundtrack – Kevin telling me to get off Instagram

✦ Hobbies (not that anyone asked): • baking stuff I can’t eat (autoimmune nonsense) • helping my students write poetry • customizing my prosthetic leg with stickers and spite

✦ Things I Love: ♥ Flora ♥ Kevin (shut up, he’s still my best friend) ♥ loud music on quiet mornings ♥ teaching english

✦ Things I Hate: ✘ people talking to me like I’m 12 ✘ when strangers say “what’s wrong with him” like I’m not right there ✘ loud noises unless I make them

#original character #writing #creative writing #writing community #writing on tumblr #oc #my ocs #my characters #i love my ocs #oc stuff #oc lore #lore

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notpetemitchell · 22 days ago

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First chapter blues but we ball regardless!:

I was 6 years old when my Daddy told me the importance of our name. The kitchen smelled like instant coffee and the doughy scent of the leftover pancake mix sitting out, waiting to be put into the fridge.

I was sitting in the kitchen with my legs dangling in the air. Dad sat in front of me at the dining room table, a warm cup of coffee in his hands.

He ran his fingers through my hair and smiled. I didn’t understand what he was trying to tell me. I was too young. He showed me the scar on his chest. A mark of a man, I thought. I wanted a scar like that.

“Mike,” he said, giving me that shy smile he always did, “do you know why you never see your grandparents?”

I shook my head. He shook his head too and laughed. “Maybe I’ll explain when you’re older.”

I didn’t like it when he said that. “No, Daddy! Tell me! I wanna know!”

Sometimes that got me into hot water. Asking about things that I wasn’t meant to know about. I spent a lot of time in the naughty corner as a child. The teachers didn’t like me much. One time, I asked my preschool teacher why she was so big. She had a long talk with my parents that evening.

Dad chuckled. “Mikey.” He said, running his fingers through my hair. I leaned into his touch because he was my Dad. It felt safe, comfortable. “We’re strong, us Melnics. Our name has been through a lot.” He looked up and stared at the ceiling, letting out a heavy sigh. My eyes followed his. I didn’t know what was so important about the wood that covered our home.

“I went to war once, Michael. —. 1990. Leaving you and your sisters and mother was the hardest thing I’d ever done.”

“Then why did you go?”

He sighed, but still had a smile on his face. “I had no choice. I was forced to.”

Dad didn’t want to talk about it. I knew that much. But I was curious and I needed to know.

“By who, Dad?”

He replied with, “When I was your age, I got this scar.” He pointed to nothing in particular.

He stuttered. He always did. I got used to it, and I never noticed it anymore. But today was particularly bad. It never made sense to me as a child.

He bared his neck to me, showing off the ivory colored slit across his throat.

“My age…?” I hadn’t ever noticed it. But now the white mark was more present than ever. Dad just laughed and shrugged his shoulders. He looked back down at me. He took my hand in his. It was heavy, strong. I touched his calloused and scarred fingers. There were bumps where the marks of wounds had once been. He was strong and tough, and I wanted to be like him more than anything.

“I came home from school one day. My dad was angry. Really angry. And he…”

I didn’t understand where he was going. But he stopped. He trailed off, muttering about how maybe I was too young to get it.

I was.

I kept on staring at the mark on his neck. He leaned back in his chair and scratched his jaw, like he always did when he was thinking about something. “You know what they used to call me in the army?”

“What?”

“Lots of things. Their favorite one was ‘Stammering Stephen’. Or Mouse. Or Skippy. Even Mumbles and Twitch.”

He said it like it was the easiest thing in the world.

“The army guys said it was funny.” He looked away. “My drill sergeant came up with them.”

“That’s not funny,” I said. Both our grips tightened against each other at the same time. “That’s mean.”

Dad looked on into nothingness, staring out the window hoping for something to bring him to ease. I knew he pretended to be okay from a very young age. I was innocent, but I wasn’t stupid.

“I didn’t like it either,” he finally said. “But I smiled. Laughed, even. That’s what you do when the people in charge tell you something’s a joke. You laugh so they don’t come back meaner.”

I really didn’t get it, but I knew I didn’t like the way he said it.

“But-”

“That’s part of being a Melnic. You take all that you can and you deal with it. We’re strong. I don’t always like it, but that’s that. Life throws things at you, and you just have to take them. It might take a while to get there. Hell, kid, I still haven’t recovered from my time in the army. I see things… things I don’t ever want to remember. I killed a man. Men, actually. And I’ll never forget that. But I’m a Melnic, and we deal with it.

“I’m not as strong as you think, Mikey. Not then. I got the name ‘Twitch’ for a reason. I was scared all the time. Of not being enough for your mother.”

“But you were brave. You are.”

He sighed. “Bravery’s more than just marching when you’re told to.”

He looked at me long and hard then, like he was seeing something in me he didn’t know how to name. “There’s a lot to our name that you don’t know yet. More than I could ever explain. But you need to know that our name is heavy. And we carry it.”

I looked at him because I didn’t know what he meant. “Is it… cursed? Are we cursed?”

He chuckled not unkindly. He knew I wasn’t the brightest kid. One day I was going to prove him wrong.

“No, Kid. The Melnic name is just one that’s a pretty big deal to have. I’ve spent years trying to change what it means to be a Melnic. Back in my day,” he said, because he was old, “being a Melnic meant you were cruel. Unkind. Then it meant being a Mumbles and a Mouse and a Twitch. Can you guess what it means to be a Melnic now?”

I shook my head. Dad smiled and ruffled my hair. “That’s okay, kid. Being a Melnic means more than you could ever comprehend. Strong. Powerful.”

I didn’t know what he was talking about.

Not until the night my own blood hit the pavement.

Not until I heard someone spit my name like it was filth.

Not until I felt the weight of every man who came before me.

I ran my fingers over his hand. It should’ve been smooth or wrinkly. I ran my fingers over the bumps and scars of a brave man. He shouldn’t’ve had to be brave in the first place. “Did you get these in the army? Will I get scars like this?”

Dad shook his head. “Yes… and no. I hope you won’t.” He said quietly.

He put me to bed that night. Tucking me in, making sure I was warm. Comfortable. Something my Daddy hadn’t had in his childhood. I never knew back then. But he hinted at it. The way he made sure I was always okay. He never drank. Never yelled. Never touched me without making sure I knew it was coming.

He became the father he never had.

“One day, I’m going to be like you, Dad. Strong!” I said as my Daddy pulled my blanket up all the way to my chin. He smiled and ruffled my hair. He didn’t bother trying to speak slowly and deliberately. It was Stammering Stephen all over again. And I loved it. Because it was him.

“You can be whoever you want to be, Mikey. Whatever you want to be. As long as you promise to be yourself.”

I didn’t know it at the time. My Daddy’s conversation would stick with me. His voice always played in the back of my mind when I needed it most.

And I needed it when I sat alone in a hospital bed. I needed it most when my face felt the tinge of a blade slicing through skin. But then my Daddy’s words were gone. I would never remember them. Never playing in the back of my mind, no matter how hard I tried.

Then, I never wished to be a Melnic. I promised myself that I would hide away and be the boy I was supposed to be. But there was always that little boy inside promising to be like his Daddy.

I was 8 years old when my Mama told me, ‘You can’t control people’s actions, but you can control how you react to them.’

Her advice came with warnings. Always followed up with even more advice that seemed to follow in a never-ending spiral of her constantly spitting out guidance.

My Mama meant well. She always did just like my Daddy.

If someone throws a punch, you don’t fight back.

For a while, I believed her. That I would be the smart one. The fighter. I thought it took more strength not to fight back.

It took me a while to realize guys don’t like the kind of kid who doesn't fight back. To sit there quietly and take it.

But when you do? Oh, that’s when you’ve gone too far.

That night, I didn’t want to swing. But I had to. The way he spat my name like it was filth. It was Switch-Hitter and Crybaby, and Princess, even Sissy, and —.

That night, I understood my father’s words for the first time.

Though it didn’t last for long.

I was out cold by the time they found me. Lying in a pool of my own blood. So unconscious, I would wake up weeks later and not even remember my name.

I wish I had never promised to be like my Daddy.

I was 10 when I stood in my parents’ bedroom.

Mom was working at the hospital late that night. Mom would be complaining about her back by the time she got home. My Mama worked at the hospital where she delivered lots of babies. She told me where babies came from when I was young. As a baby nurse, as Mom put it, I guess babies were sort of your jam. And that meant babies were my jam as well. Dad would be at work, fiddling with computers or whatever he did. I wasn’t sure. He never really talked about work much. Or talked much at all.

The sunlight poured through the windows as I stood in my Daddy’s closet. There was a mirror inside the closet door. I stood lanky and tall. Just like my Daddy. That’s how a real man stood because my Daddy stood like that. And my Daddy was a real man.

It smelled like home. Him. The times when my Daddy would hold me close to his chest, and we would just sit there listening to each other’s breath.

The closest was full. A mark that the house was well-worn. Clothes filled to the brim, hanging on wooden hangers. A pile of mothballs sat in the corner. It stunk of that sweet, stinking smell.

Things were hung up randomly. Mom and Dad’s clothes were mixed up. That usually meant they were in a rush every morning. My parents tried to hide it from me, but they weren’t as organized as they seemed. And I hated it when they tried to hide things from me.

I wanted to find my Daddy’s clothes to put them on. So I could be like him, like I had promised all those years ago. And I kept my promises.

There was a jacket hanging in the corner that I hadn’t ever seen before. It was an olive green color. Ripped and torn. It had MELNIC written across the right-hand side. And U.S. ARMY across the left-hand side. And there were patches and badges. So many. There was a blue and red and white striped badge with a silver star attached to the bottom of it that sat across my Daddy’s heart.

I touched it with the tips of my fingers. Warm against the cold, untouched jacket. I took it down from the hanger, taking it in my hands. It smelled like him. Not mothballs. I was clumsy. The jacket almost fell onto the floor with a big thud. But I made sure not to drop it. I didn’t want to damage the silver star. It must’ve been important because my Daddy kept it. And he was the type of person to throw things out when he didn’t need them anymore.

I put it over my shoulders. It was big for me. Too big, almost. The sleeves hung over my hands just like my Daddy’s work shirts did when I asked to wear them sometimes. I wanted to feel like a man. And I did more than ever with the olive green jacket hanging onto my shoulders.

I had been staring at my reflection for so long that I hadn’t realized the sun was setting. Those golden rays peeked through the window's curtain, catching every single dust particle in the air. My Daddy would be home soon.

And he was. I heard shuffling from the hallway, and before I could do anything, My Daddy walked into his bedroom. He didn’t catch me. The closet doors hung wide open, shielding me from the view of my father. He sniffled and hiccuped, and his breath hitched. He didn’t notice me until he sat on his bed and stared directly at me. Almost instantly, he pulled himself together. His back straightened, and he wiped the water from his eyes. I was old enough now to understand that my Daddy was crying. I was no longer the once innocent and naive boy I had been. I rushed up into his arms before he could say anything.

He pulled me in close, and we listened to each other’s breath once again. Then he noticed the jacket. He sniffled and chuckled, touching the silver star pinned underneath my last name. “Haven’t seen this in a while.” He said, wiping the tears from his eyes.

And I knew he was lying. It didn’t shine like it was supposed to. It was dull and frayed. Worn in. I wondered if he wore it, standing in front of the mirror, just like I had.

I sat in his lap, still listening to his soft sniffling. The weight on my shoulders felt heavier. He said it like it was nothing. Like the jacket hadn’t been stored away in the deepest depths of my parents’ closet.

“Can I keep it?” I asked, looking up at him. I took the jacket off and handed it to him. He stared at it, a certain uncertainty in his eyes.

“Daddy?” I asked him because even though I was big now, I still called him Daddy. He didn’t look at me, still sniffling. I didn’t want to ask. I knew it wasn’t my place. I knew he would respond with, ‘You don’t need to worry about me,’ or even, ‘You’re not responsible for my adult problems.’

“Does Uncle Dave have one?”

Dad nodded. He touched the tip of the silver star again. “He’s got one, alright. You’ve never seen him wear it?”

I shook my head. Dad chuckled. “He’s proud of his. Wears it with pride. You see this here?” Dad said, referring to the silver star. “Dave’s got one. But right next to it, there’s a purple heart. Have you ever wondered why Dave has that scar on his chest?”

Dad was referring to the large, gnarly scar on my Uncle Dave’s chest. It was orange, red, and ivory all at the same time. Long and jagged. Torn just like my Daddy’s jacket.

“He saved me.

“I was going to get shot… and, he…”

Dad trailed off. I could see it in his eyes. He was doing that thing where he remembered something bad. He always did that. He would trail off and stare into nothingness. Sometimes he would start breathing like the oxygen from his body was fleeting. Like death was coming for him. Reagan would tell Mom It’s happening again, and Mom would take Dad to their bedroom. Dad would come back with tears in his eyes, telling us that he was okay. Everything was okay. The first time it happened, I didn’t understand. But from that point onwards, I realized that my Daddy was a real man. Because my Daddy told me that real men cry.

I didn’t say anything. I touched the silver star on my Daddy’s jacket.

“What did he do?” I asked, looking up at him. His eyes were glassy. Not exactly tears falling, but close to it.

“There was smoke. So much smoke. And yelling, and people trampling all over me. No one cared. It was every man for themselves. I wasn’t watching. I was watching your uncle with that stupid smile on his face. It said, ‘Watch, Stephen! I’m doing it!’

“I didn’t realize until I saw him run towards me. He shoved me out of the way, and… he got shot. For me. And I’ll never forget that moment. I screamed. I screamed as loud as I could. For a medic. For someone. God, even.

“Desperate people find faith in their worst times.”

His fist curled around the olive green fabric. “I lost my voice that day. I saw him get lifted up into the arms of the nearby soldiers. They wouldn’t even let me see him. I couldn’t sleep knowing my best friend took a bullet for me. He risked his life so many times and… how could I ever repay him?”

He brushed it off and turned to the side, huffing. He shoved the jacket into my hands. “It’s nothing. Sorry. You’re my son. I shouldn’t be telling you my sob story.”

I looked up at him again. He was bigger this time. Stronger. Braver.

“Is that why you have nightmares?”

He didn’t respond right away. He looked back at me, his body now facing mine again. “Sometimes. I have these moments. When I wish it were me instead. He didn’t deserve what happened to him. And it was my fault. Damn it, Stephen.” He muttered under his breath.

“But- Uncle Dave’s okay now. He was fine.”

“Yeah,” he said, “but that’s not the point, Mikey.” He said, not unkindly. “I wish it were that simple. I’ll live with that regret for the rest of my life.”

We didn’t say much after that.

“Do you hate the medal?”

My Daddy smiled. “No. I don’t. I did something great. Incredible, even. But I did it at the cost of other people’s lives. The blood that poured from that soldier’s body will mean more to me than anything I could have done for my country. I didn’t want it in the first place.”

“Does Dave hate his?”

Dad chuckled. “No. He wears his for me. Because I can’t wear it for myself.”

Dad kissed the top of my head. “All we’ll ever need is to know that we fought long and hard for ourselves. And that’s it. Dave fought for me, and I fought for Dave.”

I settled into my Daddy’s arms. We were steady. Calm. “Your Uncle Dave says I’m just jealous because I don’t get as many veteran benefits as he does.”

And I fell asleep in my Daddy’s arms that afternoon. He never fell asleep quickly. There was always some memory keeping him up. But there was no struggle when I lay in his arms.

#stephen is such a soft dad i love him like he is my stephenling i feel so motherly #creative writing #writing #original character #lgbtq representation #mental heath awareness #books and reading #writing on tumblr #writers #military dad

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