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the raccoon got out again

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Some silly Eddie reactions cus people seem to love them

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happy pride

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linecook!Eddie Munson x server!reader | 1K

*not proofread, just thrown together and offered into the Tumblr void.

You’ve come to look forward to the slow days. Even with less bills lining your pocket, you still walk out of the diner with a smile on your face. The slow days are when you get to talk to Eddie. He sits with you at the counter and rolls silverware with you - one roll of his for every three of yours. Your hands move automatically, no need to watch the flashing of knives, forks, and spoons. Eddie’s eyes stay on the napkin as he works. And you watch him.

“...that racoon really had it out for me. I had no idea they could hold a grudge like that.” Eddie’s telling a story, he tells a lot of stories. You missed the first part of it, hypnotized by the way his lips form words. He didn’t shave this morning, you can see short bristles above his lip and know exactly how it would feel to run your finger along them.

“I’m sorry,” you put your hand up, halting his speech, “rewind. I zoned out. Start over.”

Eddie laughs, and you take note of the way his smile cuts into his cheeks. You could curl up in those lines, take a nap in his dimples. “I can’t believe you’d disrespect Frank the Racoon like that. Be careful, or you’ll end up on his shit list too.”

“Well, tell me. What did you do to Frank? It must have been bad if he’s got a vendetta against you.” Eddie looks up at you, and you dart your eyes to the silverware tray between the two of you as if you had not been staring at him for the last several minutes. 

“I didn’t do anything. Not on purpose. Frank is unreasonable, he always has been.” Eddie sighs, and resumes his slow and purposeful work. He picks up a knife, sets it on the napkin in front of him, and then a fork, and then a spoon. You risk a look up at him and find his eyes cast down on the set in front of him. “Frank’s been hanging around outside my place for a while now. I couldn’t sleep on night about 6 months ago and found him eating the cat food I leave on the porch-”

“You leave cat food on your porch? Do you have a cat?” You break in, desperate to know if he has a feline pal. He’s never talked about one.

“What? No, I don’t have a cat, per se. There are cats that hang around my place, and I feed them. Kermit, Jonesy, Mint, and Jelly - but we’re talking about Frank right now.” Eddie looks up and points a spoon at your face to emphasize his point. You tilt your head in acceptance, and he continues, “Anyway, so I’ve been feeding the cats salmon flavored Whiskas for years now. I’ve never heard any complaints, and Frank was obviously enjoying it too. About 4 weeks ago, the Kroger on Harris stopped carrying it.”

At this point, you’re really listening with interest. You want to know how this story can end with a racoon plotting Eddie’s demise. You reach into the tray to grab a fork, and Eddie’s hand goes for one at the same time. A rare brush of fingers has you pulling your hand away from his as if you’ve been burned. 

“Sorry,” an automatic apology stumbles from your lips. A stupid thing to be sorry over, because Eddie doesn’t even seem to register that small touch, “please go on.”

“Well, I had to start buying the chicken flavored Whiskas. It took me a couple of days to realize the food wasn’t going as fast as it normally does. One morning, on my way to the van, I saw him. Frank was sitting just in the shadows with his little hands held together. I wasn’t watching where I was walking, looking at the way his eyes kind of flickered at me. It was kind of creepy, he looked downright menacing. Just as I made it to the van door, my foot kind of skidded.”

Eddie’s stopped rolling silverware completely. He’s talking with his hands, motioning to show the way his foot slipped. His eyes are wide, as if disbelieving his own story.

“Ok, your foot slipped. What’s that got to do with good ole Frank?” you ask, diverting Eddie’s attention back to you.

“That son of a bitch shit right outside of my van door. And I know what you’re thinking, ‘Eddie, you can’t prove it was the racoon’,” Eddie’s fully mimicking your voice in a rather unflattering way, offering an argument you did, in fact, start churning in your mind, “but that little fucker laughed. Well, it was a squeaky sound that I assume is a raccoon laugh.” Eddie waves his hand as if to shoo the idea of it away, “I know it was him. And I know it was because he doesn’t like the chicken Whiskas.”

“You know? Hmm. Ok, sure. I accept your version of events. Have you tried apologizing?”

“Oh, I apologized. I even started driving to the other side of town to get the salmon Whiskas after 6 straight days of raccoon shit waiting for me outside the van’s door. I even started parking it in a new spot, but there it was - more shit.” 

“Oh, I’d like to meet Frank, he seems tenacious,” you say absently, not thinking about what meeting Eddie’s raccoon friend would entail, “and the cats. I love cats, but my landlord won’t allow them.”

“Well, you should come over and meet them. All of them. Don’t worry, I flea treat the cats once a month, and I had them all fixed.” 

Eddie’s invitation is something that’s never been done before. He has invited you to do something with him outside of work. You open your mouth to respond, you have no idea what will come out, when the bell at the front door jingles.

It’s the first customer you’ve seen in 2 hours, and Eddie’s gone back to the kitchen before you have a chance to realize the invitation was never accepted. It just hangs there, over the silverware tray.

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Linecook!Eddie Munson Masterlist

These are little blurbs about what I think working with Eddie in a diner would be like. We love our cook friend, and spend our days secretly pining for him.

Kiss The Cook

One

Two

Three

*There will be more soon. I will update this masterlist as I go along.

If you want to be on a taglist for this series, let me know. You must have your age on your blog, and I would ask that you reblog if you want a tag.

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if i ever write something set in the united states im just going to do zero research whatsoever and make stuff up to sound cool it’s equality

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got caught staring at my male coworker's hand tattoos today (there's script on one of his hands and I couldn't figure out what it said lol) and it made me think of linecook!eddie and if the reader has ever been caught staring at his hands (while he's cooking/prepping) while thinking..impure thoughts lol

This is so incredibly relatable. I have spent too much time thinking about what it would be like to be Eddie Munson's co-worker - there's no way I wouldn't be caught staring at him on a regular basis.

Here's what I've got for you. It's not exactly what you asked for, but this is what my brain said to write:

Eddie Munson x server!reader - there's a bit of smutty fantasy at the end.

+18 ONLY - MDNI

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The new guy - Kenney? Karl? Keith? Shit, you can't be bothered to remember when you know he'll be gone in less than a month - sloshed vegetable oil on the floor as he made is his way from the storage room back to the kitchen. He knew he spilled the oil, but the head cook, Eddie, intimidated the hell out of the new guy. He didn't want to keep him waiting.

You, of course, had no idea about the oil spill. It's 11:30, and your usual set of lunch tables have just been seated. You're dancing the familiar steps you have memorized - wipe table, greet guests, fill drink orders, greet next guest, get more drink orders, and so on - making your way to deliver the first lunch orders to the line when the heel of your right foot finds the vegetable oil.

It's a slow motion movement. Your arms being to flail as you lose your footing completely. You can feel the impact of the hard tile floor on your tailbone even while you're still mostly upright. You're bracing for impact. There's no way to stop the inevitable, you just hope the damage is minimal. You clench your teeth just as you're about to feel the pain of impact when -

-you're buoyed by a firm grip on your forearms. Behind you, he clocked the sound of the rubber of you sneaker skidding along the tile. He saw the way you lifted your arms above your head, and moved instinctively. Eddie's hands grabbed your forearms hard enough to leave a mark - a small pain to save you from anything worse.

"Woah there. I got you." You can feel Eddie's breath on your neck as he allows your back to fall into his chest. An unexpected embrace that makes your knees weaker. His arms wrap around your center, holding you close. Holding you upright.

You look down and see his hands, strong and capable, holding onto you. You let him hold you, help you back firmly on your feet. You let a hand hold the small of your back, keeping your close, while you both investigate the ground in front of you. You watch those hands as they work the scrub brush against the tile to clean all traces of the offending oil. You watched those hands held out in front of him with he berated the new guy - Keith, you're almost sure of it - about kitchen safety and not killing your co-workers.

And when you climbed under the covers of your bed that night, you thought of those hands. You imaged they were pinching your nipples instead of your own. You imagine his thick fingers, rough fingertips running along your sensitive button. And when you fall asleep, you dream of those fingers inside your mouth while he's fucking you against the diner counter.

You'll never be able to look him in the eyes again.

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i suffer from 'men are hotter banged up' disease. unfortunately there is no cure.

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society really lost the war when dressing nice / slutty = “gay” “metrosexual” “is he 💅🏻”. we had decades of men wearing crop tops and short shorts without blinking an eye and now it’s ye ole pilgrim standards and talk of scandal if they show their knees

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Joan Jett’s jacket from the I love Rock and Roll video

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Eddie is so dramatic that every time, and i mean every single time, you don't give him attention, he acts like someone just killed him. Hand on his heart like he has just been stabbed, with him slowly falling on the ground, tongue out of his mouth. Usually it only takes you to call his name, between the chuckles, and touch his arm to bring him back to life, but one day, for your surprise, that doesn't work. He keeps standing there and while you keep saying his name, you hear him whispering in a soft voice:

"Kiss him. Only the true love kiss will break the spell."

Once you calm down from the laughs, you kiss him softly on the lips, only for him to immediately kiss you back passionately, one hand touching your cheek and another one in your hair. The kiss would have definetely lasted longer if it wasn't for the fits of laughter that gets both of you.

#he’s a fucking noodle and i love him #eddie munson #prev tags you’re so right

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It's Tuesday night. Physically I am at home, mentally I am at The Hideout being the 6th drunk watching Corroded Coffin.

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Happy April 25th

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anonymous reviewer: i don’t like the way you’ve written this character in this fic

me:

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its nothing some ibuprofen and a blunt and 5 beers and a head injury and jacking off and killing myself cant fix

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fuck it homebrew boop button. reblog this post to boop the person you reblogged from.