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oklotea · 2 years ago

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Tfw you're a forty year old man who's just trying his best and constantly never rewarded for it

Introducing... WEST

A 47 year old turf battle veteran with a heart of gold who joined the Underground Anarchy scene a few years ago because he needed a faster change of pace.

West is a much more level-headed and responsible figure compared to most UA players, he always keeps his cool against annoying players who purposely try to get on his nerves, and always make sure to let them know he won’t let them step all over him.

He's the kind of guy to stop fights, whether by peaceful or violent means.

Most people only know him inside UA. There's very little known about him on the outside. That makes him a bit intimidating from a regular bystander.

Some people will say he's really skilled! and look up to him.

Other people might say they hate his cool-headedness and that he's just a stick in the mud old man who doesn't know his place.

He's a pretty reliable teammate, frequently filling in the support role who paints turf and splats opponents from perches. But in any situation he's quite adaptable.

Under the cut is more information about West! If you decide to stop reading here that’s cool! Thanks for reading!

I’m quite sure i’ll be making more posts about West because i love him so much and there’s still a lot of things you dont know about him!

He belongs in the Underground Anarchy AU by @d15gu571ng !

cya later!!!!! :D

West was a pretty anxious kid, he started to participate in turf battles when he was 15, a year later than most squid kids because he wasn’t too sure of himself yet.

He fell in love with turf battling. It was a hobby he participated in as a way to escape his problems at home, and slowly but surely strengthen his confidence in himself.

He also got freakishly amazing at it, he was good at a lot of weapons but his main has always been his 96. Gal.

His favorite modes are rainmaker and splat zones.

Things were going great for West. He wanted to do this forever, it's what he loved to do, but good things don't last forever, that proved itself when West started to grow up past high school and people started to expect him to drop his enjoyment for turf war. He wasn’t a kid anymore, and it was time to face the real world like most adults in the city.

He fought back against this idea for a moment but he easily gave up, sadly. Just, the crushing reality was too painstakingly obvious. It was either do what he loved or... Be a disappointment.

AND NO! He couldn’t balance his hobby with his job! NO TURF WARS for ADULTS! What a childish idea!

So for 4 long, long years, he dedicated his life to learning how to become a pilot! It wasn’t as horrible as West expected! West has liked the idea of being a pilot for a while now and now he’s following that dream!

Eventually, turf wars were just a faded memory in the back of West’s mind. There were more important things to worry about, and thats okay!

West worked as a airline pilot for 9 years! During this time he made multiple friends, valuable life experiences, and! his husband (Beck) and wife (Tori) have conceived a daughter for the three of them! (Vida)

After their kid was born, West wanted to be a good dad, but because of his job, he unfortunately became a bit distant from his only daughter. I’ll make another post about West’s family.

After being a pilot for nearly 10 years, West decided to take a break from piloting because he felt extremely burnt out and far from his family. So he went home and now, he’s currently a stay-at-home dad! He’s reconnecting with his daughter (who’s 22 now) to make up for all the lost time between them. While Tori and Beck are the breadwinners for the family.

This was around the time West was finally given the opportunity to fully reminisce of his younger years (yeah he finally realizes how freakin old he is....He tries his best to cope) when he participated in turf wars throughout middle school and high school. And one random day, he invites one of his old aircrew friends, whom he knew once played turf war, to play rainmaker! On that day, West’s love for turf war which he thought had been dead for years, was lit back up.

It wasn’t a while until West realised that ordinary turf war, just couldn’t cut it for him anymore. He was constantly over-powering younger casual players, that he felt a bit bad. He was well-known locally as the weird old guy who is freakishly good at turf war, it’s annoying! Doesn’t he have somewhere else to be?

Yeah he got treated the same way he was treated all the way back then after high school. Bullied by children this time. It might not seem like it but this constant torment really gets to West sometimes. It’s a good thing he has his family to lean on for support.

He couldn’t take this treatment over and over again. If this continued he would jump off a cliff. He had to do something for himself. This was when he asked his daughter for a favor. Vida wasn’t a turf war enthusiast, but! She had a lot of young people friends who would know something about turf war he didn’t. He needed an entirely different turf scene. One where he might be accepted.

To be honest, West was expecting something like- a club of middle-aged turf war enthusiasts or- a splatoon that consists of some guys who wouldn’t judge him for being older. SOMETHING NORMAL.

VIDA’S WEIRD FRIENDS GOT HIM INTO AN ILLEGAL TURF WAR RING.

He was a bit reluctant at first but decided, hey, he's even more intrigued than scared! He followed them to the area of the UA battle that evening and didn't know what to expect.

It proved that he was SEVERELY UNPREPARED. It was a big shock how elaborately modified most of the players' weapons were. How much more ruthless and unapologetic they were. But that was what West found so appealing. He just had one of the most adrenaline-fueled quick paced turf battles in his life. He wanted more of that.

Around a decade later, West has officially retired from being a pilot and is now a full-time househusband. He spends most of his days spending time with his friends and family, taking care of himself, working on random projects in his garage, just all-around enjoying himself, and battling it out in illegal underground turf war rings!

It was an up-hill battle but he eventually found his footing in this chaotic place. He’s way more confident and free-spirited than he’s ever been in his life, and couldn’t ask for anything different. Of course, there’s always going to be annoying people who won’t leave him alone til’ he leaves, but he can always get along in his life by ignoring them and confiding in his family.

He still has some personal insecurities but for now, he’s pretty content with where his life is.

THANK YOUUU!!!!!!!! HAVE GOOD MORNING/AFTERNOON/EVENING!!!!!!! SILLIES!!!!!

#splatoon oc #splatoon #oc: west #underground anarchy #splatoon au #WOO HOOOOO IM DONE!!!!!!!!!!!!!#im so glad i was able to get this done #im really proud of myself!#please compliment me ive been pretty down these days and i would really appreciate it #thanks for reading all the way down!!!!! have anice day sillies!#tea art 🎨#oklo makes a post

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ghost-proofbaby · 3 months ago

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It's summer for you, winter for me. Warm me up with strawberry fluff! As always, my muse, your muse, the one and only, Eddie.

Midsummer's night, because I don't have a lot to inspire you with. I'm thinking something cute but weird? Maybe some human body softness where Eddie is a bit of a freak and we love him for it. And we're told our bodies are lovely, even when they're doing weird shit.

I lalalove youuuuu. xo Rhi

RHI!!!! <3 i adore you. thank you for this prompt - i had far too many ideas for it, but ended up on settling for this one, which coincidentally feels like the most subtle of them all? either way, it definitely turned out being the softest. give me an eddie munson who just wants to sniff me like a dog. this definitely got a bit long but i hope you enjoy, my dear <3

the smell of you

warnings: weirdos in love? idk. i have a skewed sense of what is actually weird i think. mentions of death and coffins jokingly. eddie 'manhandles' reader sort of. not edited.

wc: 2.2k+

come enjoy a sweet summer treat with me <3

“Eddie?”

The entire apartment is quiet – too quiet – as you drop your keys into the old crystal bowl on the counter. The clink resonates through the air, louder than the soft murmur of the stereo static you can hear from down the hall.

“You dead?” you call out again, slipping off your running shoes and tossing down your headphones onto the counter as well now, “Do I need to call the coroner?”

Your tone is lilted, teasing with airiness as you continue to wander deeper into the apartment and head straight for the room you know Eddie has to be in. Like the waves pulled by the moon, there’s an incessant string tied around one end of your soul that connects you to his, and you follow it all the way down the hallway. The bedroom door is wide open, and you can hear his mumbled yell of a response without clarity before you even cross the threshold.

You wouldn’t have even needed him to verbally respond to find him in this tiny apartment. You two could get separated on the streets of a bustling city, of a buzzing New York sidewalk, and you still wouldn’t properly lose him. It’s more than just soul ties and his gravity that keeps you pulled to him.

Something unspoken. Something homely.

“Sorry, what was that?” you hum as you spy him face-down in the bed, pillow muting him by the mouthful, “Say it one more time, and this time not into the pillow.”

When he finally properly turns over, he’s a vision. Sleep lines folded into his skin and a bit of drool in the corner of his mouth, eyes squinting in irritation not at you but the sunlight flooding in through the bedroom window. Messy hair, messy shirt, messy everything. A kind of mess you just want to collapse into currently, curling up in all that he is from the day’s exhaustion.

He’d mentioned wanting to take a nap before you’d left for the gym. Something about the summer heat draining him, trailing off as he’d rambled about how he’d probably thrive as a vampire.

“I said,” he huffs, sitting up, the frizz of his hair becoming a makeshift halo, “If you call the coroner, request the comfiest coffin possible.”

“Why do you need a comfy coffin if you’re already dead?”

“You dare deny me of being buried in tempurpedic memory foam? In my hour of need?”

You roll your eyes as you huff out a little laugh, forcing yourself to turn away from him long enough to strip out of your socks. But just as you reach down for the pieces of clothing, you catch sight of the source of that stereo static flooding the room.

Your shared record player, spinning a blood red pressing of one of your more recent vinyl purchases. The album has been played through, but the player no longer had an automatic stop mechanism, probably from years of use.

The center of the record is probably scratched, and Eddie knows it, from how sheepish he looks when you glance over your shoulder at him.

“Speaking of death,” you walk over quickly, purposefully, before carefully lifting the needle and cutting the static finally, “Care to explain why you’re burning scratches into my Momento Mori vinyl?”

“I’m sorry,” he quickly apologizes, nearly flinging himself off the bed as he scooches quickly to the end, clearly fully awake now, “I put it on and thought I’d just lay down for a quick second, but then the bed was so comfy, and I thought it wouldn’t hurt to take a quick nap, and then…” he trails off, looking up at you through his lashes with big eyes already pleading for forgiveness, “I’ll buy you a new one. Swear it.”

It’s impossible to be mad at him when he’s looking like this, inhumanely soft and easily forgiven, “You’re lucky you’re cute, or you really would be dead.”

He doesn’t respond with words, but instead the outstretch of his hands, fingers flexing as he beckons to you. The needle rests on its perch, the vinyl left behind to gather dust for a few extra moments, as you go straight to him.

When his palms slip beneath your old t-shirt and meet your skin, they’re pleasantly warm.

“You were right,” you admit as his knees spread, delegating even more room for you to stand in front of him as your hand wanders to cradle the side of his face, fingers tangling in sweaty curls from his rest. Your thumb mimics his on your own skin instinctively, tracing a large arch right up over his cheekbone, “It’s hot as balls outside.”

“Told you so,” he murmurs, smiling softly in satisfaction as he leans lazily into your touch.

“You did,” you agree quietly, half-entranced by his relaxed face, no sight of pride in the room currently.

He resembles a cat as he continues to preen under your gentle hand, and you almost expect him to start purring right before you find the strength to pull away, removing his hands from where they'd wandered to your lower back.

One swipe of his finger along your sweaty spine, and you’d remembered what your original intentions had been immediately upon getting home.

“Wai- Where are you going?” he’s seemingly brought back down to Earth the moment he loses the pattern your thumb had been tracing, the press of your fingertips into his scalp. When he reaches back out to latch onto you again, you take a step back, “Get back here-”

“I need to shower,” you laugh, shaking your head and smacking his hands away as he continues to barter, “I’m all sweaty and smelly, let me go clean up and then we can nap togeth-”

“You can shower after we nap,” he nearly whines, finally catching your shirt between his fingers and tugging, uncaring for if he stretches the fabric. A small price to pay to have you close to him, “C’mon, sweetheart. I know you’re just as exhausted as I am.”

You swear you meant to take another step backwards, but somehow, you end up back between his knees, “Did you not hear me, Munson? I stink.”

“Good.”

He doesn’t give you any time to react – in an instant, he’s throwing his face forward, burying it against your stomach as you let out a gasp and immediately try to pry him away with far too gentle of hands in his hair.

“Eddie!”

If it were anyone else, you’d probably be mortified. But Eddie just takes a dramatic deep breath in, nose buried just shy of your belly button, and when his shoulders start to shake with muted laughter, you can’t stop the smile from breaking. Your fingers are still twisted in his hair, still pulling back in an attempt to get him away from you, but he’s resilient.

And all your faux resistance is weak in comparison. Soon enough, you’re back to melting into him.

Only once you’re relaxed once more, no sign of trying to pull away again any time soon as his hands once more evade the space beneath your shirt to wander up and down your sticky skin without a care in the world, does he lift his face away from you long enough to breathe and speak, “I’ll have you know – I love your stink.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m serious.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“I’m your idiot.”

The game of banter is cut short when he goes back to pressing his nose into your clothes that surely can’t smell good. No amount of deodorant or perfume could erase that underlying stench of sweat. Hell, the shirt is still a bit moist from it all: from the walk to the gym, from your workout itself, from the walk home. It’d been through the ringer, and you’re back to tugging him away from you.

“I refuse to believe you like how gross I smell right now,” you reinforce, eyes darting towards the bathroom connected to your master bedroom, “I promise I’ll be quick with the shower.”

“Baby,” he fights back, wrapping his arms around you securely, no intention of losing this battle, “You remember that time we went to the fair, and you were complaining about how you were sweating, so I tried to lick your face?”

Your nose scrunches quickly at the memory, “I do, unfortunately.”

“You really think I’d be willing to lick the sweat off your body but be afraid of you smelling a little bad while we cuddle?” his shoulders drop as he looks up at you, head tilted, almost as if amused with the conversation, “What kind of man do you take me for?”

“The kind that gets off on annoying me.”

His jaw drops, putting on a fake look of offense before he dramatically throws himself back onto the bed, laying flat as he makes a fist to mimic stabbing his chest, “You wound me.”

You’ve heard those words a thousand times in a hundred different ridiculous voices. You’ve seen this scene enough to have it mesmerized at this point, down to the over-exaggerated pout of his lips and the lingering of the fist against his sternum.

You never grow tired of it. You never will.

“Need me to kiss it better?” you joke as you prop a knee up on the bed, following the same script as always.

And he hits his queue perfectly when he lifts his head eagerly at the expected response, wiggling his brows a bit. “Absolutely. Doctor’s orders, in fact.”

“Great,” you see an opportunity, and take it, “I’ll get right to it, after my showe-”

You don’t even get the final syllable of the word off your tongue before he’s clenching his thighs around your own, knees pressing hard before he wraps his legs the rest of the way around your waist to pull you in. A squeak of surprise leaves your lips as you begin to fall forward, but Eddie is quick to break the fall with ease. Catching you with his eager hands, maneuvering for you to half drop to the mattress while some of you still lands atop of him.

He has you right where he wants you, turning his head to be face to face with you, noses nearly brushing, “Unfortunately, the doc said you have to kiss it better now, or else you’ll be comfy coffin shopping.”

“A fatal wound?” you gasp, nearly mocking him. It doesn’t offend him – if anything, his boyish grin only grows wider, “First, I’m smelly-”

“Again, I like when you’re smelly.”

“-And then I inflict a fatal wound upon my lover? Oh, how dare I.”

Slowly, all your insecurity of how you currently smell is simply fading. The entire ordeal has become an art of childlike, whimsical jokes – and Eddie is an artist. A professional at the dance, locked and loaded with his incomparable skill set equipped for disarming you this way. The ability to make someone feel loved, imperfections and weirdness aside.

He likes you, even when you claim you don’t smell your best. And you like him, even when his hair is tangled beyond recognition and one of his socks is half-hanging off his foot from a nap.

You like him when he’s embarrassing you in public, tongue chasing after you with the threat of licking your sweat away, and he likes you when all you can do in response is a weak palm to his chest (that isn’t even making an effort to push him away) as you giggle relentlessly.

You like each other on the good days, the bad days, the weird days.

Disarmed entirely, you don’t even notice when his face conveniently slots itself far too close to your armpit as you two scooch further up into the bed. You’re more occupied with the way your legs tangle up, toeing each other’s socks off properly as he slings a heavy arm across your torso.

“We’re gonna have to wash the sheets,” you mumble, exhaustion catching up as the two of you finally settle.

He hums absentmindedly, nuzzling into your skin a bit further as he makes himself comfortable. “And wash away your sweet, sweet stink? I don’t think so, sweetheart.”

“Oh, fuck off,” you laugh, unbothered as your fingers start to trail up and down his back over the t-shirt, smoothing out wrinkles along the way, “I’m serious. We need to change them soon anyways, I think I got crumbs in the bed the other night with those crackers.”

“Bury me in the crumbs of all your midnight snacks,” he almost slurs, clearly drifting back off.

You snort in response, relaxing and letting your own eyes shut. Matching all your deep breaths with his own, a million different last words crossing your mind to whisper to the boy you’re sure is once again asleep.

I love you.

I adore you.

I would like to spend the rest of my life with you, if you’ll have me.

And maybe some of those unspoken thoughts slip out without you realizing, because he squeezes you just a little bit tighter, presses his face just a little bit deeper into your skin as his scruff tickles you.

The only actual thought you can know for certain that you say, though, is, “Do you think they actually make coffins with memory foam inside?”

To your surprise, even despite the almost-snores that had been escaping him, he answers in a heartbeat.

“Oh, definitely. We’ll order two.”