#kermit x reader

There was simply something about the eerie silence, the shadows casting upon the streets, barely touched by the headlights and the moon, the quiet hum of the radio and the slow shift of your hands on the wheel.

You liked driving at night, but today, it feels off.

Just this morning, you had looked at your house one last time. It still had that white paint on the porch, that had faded due to the sunlight, and those scrapped stickers on what had been your childhood room's door.

He had tried talking some sense in to you, claiming all your life was there, in Arizona. With him. But Phoenix had started to feel like a prison and he was your warden. So you snuck at dawn when no one would notice, like a criminal. Very fitting.

The sun hadn't touched yet the kitchen where you ate when your feet balanced off the chair and now graced the floor in a lazy manner, eating cereal with marshmallows first and now, just about three days ago, just oatmeal, because it seemed like what a grown up would do.

But in many ways you were still the same kid who was too shy to raise her hand in class because she couldn't find her voice, bound to be forgotten among much louder and brigther kids. Yet he had seen you.

So you stayed: put up with dances where he would spin you until the world was reduced to a blur, and the quiet home life in town-- kids running around and barbecues on the summer seemed like a good ending. You dreamed of a truck and a garden, and the few friends you made all seemed to share the same vision. Except for one.

When Dorothea came back from New York, eyes too wide and smile too bright, she seemed like a different person. In many ways she still was the same girl with an accent who had shared her sandwhich with you during recess, but her words now carried ambition and her gaze seemed awoken by a purpose you couldn't find but on the road that drove out of town.

But folks kept her at arms length. The amusement in her smile was infectious as a disease, and with whispered stabs they would talk behind her back. Your friend bore a scarlett letter for wanting more.

You had never wanted more; compliant might of be your second name. But when you'd see her walk by your house, shorts above her knees and that city girl strut with her sneakers against the hot asphalt, you were envious, and Williams seemed so small and dull.

Who does she think she is? he would say, and you'd nod your head, despite the secret admiration hidden in your eyes.

Suddenly, the red truck sounded stupid and the married life with kids could wait.

We could wait, you had said outloud.

He had laughed, like you just told a joke. It was on surprise, but it felt cruel.

Why? like he couldn't understand you-- as if you spoke on a different language. What is there to wait for?

You took your decision that day.

It started slow, by wearing skirts that rode up with the wind, blaming the lack of clothes on the heat. Then with the nicotine between your lips, the forbidden act making clouds that escaped your red lips. Or wearing the other make up Dorothea taught you, now holding hands with her as people whispered she had tainted your naive soul too. He caught your new smell, and spoke harshly about not wearing clothes that made other men turn to eat out the sun-kissed skin of your legs, because you'd turn too, gaze defiant and full of mischief, but that he didn't know. Might as well wear nothin'. But he cried with his face buried in the same uncovered legs, saying he hated to see you like this; he didn't recognize you.

It was easy then.

One day you packed your bags and took the car you'd been given as a graduation gift, leaving town with what seemed a lifetime stashed in the backseat.

You left a note for your parents, neatly placed on a bed you wondered when you'd sleep again in, if you were ever to be back. To him, who you now just start to wonder if you ever really loved or just accepted because it's what there was and nothing more, you hadn't left a note nor explanations.

He wouldn't understand anyways.

Just the promise of what could've been, shining in the middle of your bed.

You had been driving non-stop, afraid like a fugitive who was being chasen. Sometimes, you'd take stops on the road and pulled out a pen and a book, despite your fingers itching from driving and your urgency to check the phone you'd been to coward to turn on to see the wake of messages your disappearance might have sparked.

There was a sting somewhere outside the ache of your bones or the flutter of your tired eyes, and it cried for home and longed for the life you always envisioned for yourself. But it also felt like a second skin you couldn't quite wash off with the cheap soap and cold water of the motel you had crashed in a couple of hours ago.

You didn't want to live in suburban desert dreams back at Williams. You wanted to feel alive.

It's nightime when the little peep sound jolts you awake. You had been driving in auto-pilot; your car needs gas and you needed rest.

Its probably ten at night, and according to your map, Utah isn't that far. It's a fresh start: a place where no one knows your name or your whole life, for the matter.

Your car comes to a stop under faded neon lights in the middle of the road. There's a truck parked next to your car, the guy inside the convenience store, and that's about it. You're filling your tank while suppressing a yawn, when a movement across your station catches your eyes.

The only other customer, a man old enough to be your dad. He's staring at you, leaning against his truck, arms crossed while the biceps flex with the position, tense. Even from your place, you can see how the veins pop here and there, making you gulp on instinct.

The smoke of his cigarrette gets lost in the neon hues and starry sky. Doesn't he know you're not supposed to do that at a gas station? Yet, his lack of care and recklessness picks your interest.

(Hey! The last time you had human contact was about a day ago and after seeing only roads, asphalt, desert and mountains, you deserved a little treat to entertain yourself)

"Like what you see, doll?" sporting the most sleazy smile you'd ever seen.

Something about him was as alluring as uneasy, the nervous tremble of your hands but the warmth between your legs speaking of said conflicting emotions. You pretend to be invested on the task of filling your truck (the reason you're here, after all) but the way your body burns, begs, to look again is humilliating. So you do, but he isn't there anymore, althought his truck is.

"You know, wearin' a dress like that at night isn't a good idea for'a girl like you"

He appears from seemingly nowhere, making you jump. Your heart flutters and you clench at nothing with the sound of his deep voice, low, akin to a rumble or a thunder. It's laced with diversion, and the not so subtle way he eats you out with his eyes like a starved man, wolfish grin on display as he leans now against your car, makes his intentions all the more clear.

"Why?" you feel oddly bold, instead of scared. Maybe it's the lack of sleep, because why the hell would you be flirting in a gas station, at night, entertaining an old and slighlty creepy albeit attractive man when you had been engaged less than a day ago?

"The weather" he appears nonchalant, balancing the cigarrette like a toothpick between his chapped lips. "Or men"

"Bold of you to say that while wearing that" you poke fun at his outfit, which consists of some shorts, worn t-shirt and a vest. He's sporting the tall socks and slippers combo, dressing like a grandpa but he pulls it off alright. "Also, men? Like who, you?"

He laughs, the sound sprouting rich and grave from his chest. It makes you dizzy. Yup, let's blame the lack of sleep again.

"Well, look at that. Sure got'a mouth on ya', doll" he gets closer, and his scent floods your nostrils. Wood, gasoline, musk, sweat and burnt ciggars. "Just takin' care of you. Say, how about ya' warm that shaky frame of yers? This place has sum coffee goin' on. Shit, but it works"

He could poison your drink for all you care, but all his teeth are on display and he's got a dimple. Also, you're fighting your fluttering eyelids in here.

"Y/n" it's your way of agreeing while extending your hand.

Instead of shaking it, he pulls you even closer and kisses it, his warm lips brushing your cold hand. You shiver at the contact, and it may be the way his firey auburn holds your gaze while doing so or how big his hands feel, both your mind and heart racing.

"Joel" he says, and then that same calloused palm finds its way to the soft part above your ass in your back, guiding you to the store.

Inside, it smells like cheap coffee and grease. You clutch your bag tighter, and choose a table as the stranger pays for your coffee, or well, Joel.

"There ya' go" and he places the hot brown liquid in front of you.

Now that he's closer and under the yellow-ish lights, you take a better look at his face. His eyes, which mock the drink in front of you. His hands, that seem to almost swallow the small cup with their size, and then his hair. God, alright. He sported a fucking mullet of all haircuts. And boy, wasn't it embarrassingly attractive? Your eyes fall towards his beard and mustache, grays sprinkled across them. But your mind and eyes alike went back to the thought of feeling the slightly greasy looking hazel strands, calling for your touch.

"Gonna take a sip or what?" and he smiles. You don't know if it's in diversion by your doze-off or because he knows why.

You had never felt this hot and bothered. Hell, not even normal hot. He had never made you feel like this, and now some fucking random skanky man was getting your panties on a twist in the middle of the road.

"I-I'm going to the bathroom" you manage to squeak out, running for your life.

Inside the stall, you splash some water into your face, as if trying to make you react. Get yourself together, you tell your reflection in the mirror, but then you're fixing your hair, and as you reach for your red lipstick you realize you left your bag back at the table. Fuck.

You get out, only to find your bag weirdly sprawled on the seat, the handles centimeters away from falling to the floor. Then, he, who you only see his sturdy back and broad shoulders, crouched down, like he's reading something, althought Joel doesn't seem the type of guy who chooses to read in his free time.

"Joel?"

And then you see it: the tiny notebook you had been scribbling on the road, looking even smaller on his grip.

Your To-do list.

It may sound stupid, but a week before leaving, you bought it: the last memory of your town and the start of your new life. At twenty-five, the concept may sound a little stupid with what you've written, but you felt your new life deserved to have space for some of those dreams or fleeting thoughts you had during class written down.

And now fucking Joel was reading it.

"Wow, doll. Ya' sure are full of surprises" he chuckles, flipping through the pages. What sounds better: killing him or yourself? Hmm, maybe throwing the burning coffee at him would suffice.

"Give me that back" you extend your rigid hand, voice clipped.

The stupid trail of decisions catches up to you. Why had you trusted a stranger that had oggled you right in front of your face? You're too starved and horny to think straight, clearly, because now he's mocking you while your face burns with red shame.

"Saved your bag from fallin' when ya' rushed outta da seat. Then this lil' thing came out" he stops on a page. "Skinny dipping. And'ere I thought you're a good girl"

"Shut up and give me that" you seethe.

"Wow, doll" Joel chuckles yet again. "don't get yer panties in a twist. If ya' wanted so, jus' ask"

You scoff at his boldness. "Excuse me?"

"Ya' heard me" he gets up from his seat, body towering over yours.

Was it hot in here? Why was your body warm all of the sudden? Was it the coffee? No, you hadn't even take a sip. Joel searches before looking at you again with a content gaze and an ugly smug grin, like he's used to having his way.

"Sex with a stranger" then searches for other, the sound of the pages the only other sound in the room, still not overpowering the one of your heart, echoing in your ears. "Sex in a bathroom"

He closes the little book and hands it back to you. You take it with force, ears burning at their tip. "So?"

"Funny" he muses. "I can help you with both"

Your head drops back against the cold wall as Joel's lips find your collarbone.

This was stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Of all the decisions you've made in your life, this one is either the worst or the best. Fuck, you hadn't even arrived at Utah and could cross two things from the book.

His kiss is rushed, rough and sloppy, sucking on your lips so hard you feel them swollen and bruised. Joel's tongue then pokes inside your mouth, to taste your insides and all of you more deeply, content with the savor of your sweet mouth and gloss smeared across his own. It isn't often that he gets a chance like this: sure, casual sex is like breathing for him at this point in life, where he's made it too far without building a home for a wife. But now, here? You, this pretty young thing, the small whimpers coming out of your lips, how you squirm under his frame and groping hands that travel through a body he can't get enough of. Shit, he ain't young anymore but he's painfully hard and can't stop his task despite his aching joints and age. Joel just wants to taste all of you forever, despite the shit place and rather funny circumstances:

You both, strangers, in an dirty dark alley behind a gas station, about to fuck.

He's pressing his knee tightly between your thighs, the same one you had spotted before thanks to his shorts. His strong grip pins your hand above your head, rendering you immobile under his weight, that presses over you. Shit, you should be thinking this through and running away, but the complete submission and reckless choice makes it all the more hot.

Your throat works up soft, needy noises and Joel marvels at the sounds.

"Keep 'em comin', doll. Wanna know I'm makin' you feel good"

His lips leave lazy wet trails across your skin. The skirt of your dress is raised by his leg and pressed knee.

"Hmh, Joel-" you needily whimper.

"Shh" he swallows a moan with his mouth, "but jus' for me, doll. Keep it low, will ya'? Or want the whole place knowin' what a dirty slut ya' are? Fuckin' with da first stranger that looks yer way?"

You had never been degraded, less thought it would turn you this much on.

"Joel" you whimper his name.

He groans into your mouth, lewd tongues tangling and tasting the messy kiss with fiery passion and hate. Your fingers fist into the thick material of his vest, nails about to ruin it, but by the way his eyes darken and he smiles, Joel might be into it.

The man pulls away for breath, a string of saliva connecting you two.

His hand gropes your ass and then moves to your exposed inner thigh.

"What'a dirty girl" your fingers hook into his worn-out jeans, tugging the peaking waistband forward to you. His weight and chest push into you, "so wet and eager for this dick, you cockhungry whore"

To prove his point, his thick fingers rub your clit through the material of your panties. You tilt your head back in pleasure at the newfound sensation, and he takes the chance to mark your exposed neck and collarbone, making you moan his name when he sinks his teeth on the skin.

"All 'tis for me?" and his fingers fingers slink down to trace your folds again. Your back arches, breasts pressing against his chest. You dig your nails on his broad back, making him hiss with pleasure as you grab for support.

His rough digits slide and push your sticky panties aside, then plunge inside your pussy. You whimper quietly, the squelches of your pussy swallowing his fingers the only sound in the dark, aside from the busy road ahead. The calloused pad of his thumb circles your sensitive nub, pressing and massaging as his lips travel down to the valley of your tits.

"Wanna free this bad girls and taste 'em" he pulls down your dress, mouth practically watering at the rosy soft skin. "Fuck, doll. No bra? Ya' were lookin' for this, ain't you? Makin' the job easy. I'm just'a lucky man"

He wants to see how they bounce with each thrust, eyes darkening with the shade of lust.

"I- Fuck"

Joel's fingers thrust in and out at with a rapid pace and delicious movements you had never been pleasured before with. Now, when he curls them? That nearly sends you over the edge, reaching a spot you had never known existed.

"S'tight" he groans at your clenching warm sticky walls, fingers slowing but still moving as you ride out your high, drenching him in your liquids.

"Found sum sugar for that shit tastin' bitter coffee, eh?" he takes his own fingers on his mouth and sucks on them with a rather obscene gesture, taking them out with a loud pop. His tongue licks what's left off, and you whimper at the lewd image. "Yer too sweet, doll. Can't get 'nough"

Your arms wrap around him, as Joel rolls his hips, seeking friction to relieve him of the uncomfortable strain against the denim.

"Ready to take me in, doll? I'll just warn ya' somethin'" his free hand unbuckles his belt and tugs down the jeans and boxers down, dick in display: hard, and leaking with precum. He drags his teeth against your ear, and his hot breath ghosts over you with coffee and ciggars. "See that? Think ya' can take it?"

The tuft of sweaty hair leading down to his length has you salivating, and your fingers wrap around him before you realize it. Joel winces at the touch.

"Like a champ" and you swear his erection throbs in your palm, head angry and needy.

What a gentleman.

He doesn't wait for more words, teasing your moist folds with his tip before he's inside, buried to the hilt, rough fingers steady bruising your hips as he thrusts you up against the wall. You look up at the flickering lampost, wondering how did you ever made it here and what the hell are you doing, his groans deep inside your ear as his head is buried in the crook of your neck, labored breaths against your ablazed skin. For a moment, he looses the spot and favors looking at you, to take in the sight infront of him: mouth slightly gaped open, eyes lidded, and fingers desperately digging into his back. You're fucked out of your mind, but so is he.

"Like what you see?" you mimick his words from earlier. He lets out a dry and labored chuckle.

"I do"

He snaps his hips, and you're not sure what is it that creaks, too many things happening outside (the cars, the whiff of gasoline, the nocturnal wind). Joel soon takes up an erratic pace. He's so deep in you, his balls slams into your pussy with each thrust he forces into you.

You should start writing more things on that notebook if they would become true and as good as this. Earn a ridiculous sum of money for free, for example.

Joel grunts, hands busy holding you against the wall, but he so badly wants to play with your bouncy tits, so you let out a yelp when his wet tongue rolls over the skin, mouth then sucking the skin until it's bruised, kissing lazily around your hardened nipples until teeth bite on them.

He's going insane; should go more often late night driving if he'd end up fucking pretty naive sweet-tasting girls behind alleys.

His cock fills you so perfectly it doesn't take long before your walls are spasming around his cock, and you're about to cum for a second time, before on his fingers now over his girth inside of you. Joel can sense it, so his filthy mouth goes for it:

"Go on, doll. Show me what yer made of"

You fall apart with a sharp cry, face buried into his shoulder with a bite to muffle it.

He groans as the pleasure rolls through you. "Milk me dry, c'mon. Take all of ma' seed like the slut ya're" Joel speaks while moving inside you, deeper and quicker, aching for release. Then he's pulsing, cumming with a harsh grunt. "Don't waste a drop, doll. I know you're considerate jus' like that"

His hands slide down to your waist, his long hair drenched, sticking to his forehead. There's the silence of the night and your breaths as you try to compose yourselves.

"That's a good girl" while softnening cock still inside you.

"See? Told you: took you like a champ" you pant, trying not to think of what lead you to now, just focused on the high. "I like to keep my promises"

Joel laughs, but its a soft sound; light. It caresses your chest like a wind chime.

He then pulls out, your folds a mess and his dick coated with your juices. "Shit, look at ya' hungry pussy, doll. Wore me the fuck out"

You help him pull up his pants, looking at the socks while you contain a laugh. Then you think again and the alley pulls you out of your post sex haze. Yeah, filling those two checkboxes in your To-do list will feel good as fuck, but:

Now what?

"Joel?"

"Hmh?"

He pulls up your dress to cover your tits when the wind brushes through the alley, with a weird softness to him, then fixes your panties, giving your clothed pussy a weak slap that sends a shiver through your body.

"Thanks for the treat. I'ont remember orderin' desert"

You laugh as you push him off your body, refusing to meet his eyes. This is the second man who has seen you naked, and while definitely not good at words, his wolf-like hunger in his brown eyes and needy mouth besides the hard dick have said more than enough. Besides, it's a little late to be embarrased but you're still trying to process this wild huge leap you took to celebrate the start of your new life.

"Drive safe" you mutter, starting to walk away, thinking how the hell you'll survive the two hours left in the orad with such a sticky pair of panties and sweaty body.

"Where you goin'?" his deep voice stops you before you've reached the end of the alley.

"Utah" you answer in a beat, heart beating dangerously fast.

The same sleazy smile from the first time you saw him adorns his handsome face, all teeth in display.

Tom’s Diner was the place where dreams went to suffocate slowly under the hum of flickering fluorescents and the stench of burnt coffee. More accurately, it was the last pit stop before hell—or wherever people go once they finally tap out. Unfortunately for you, it was also your workplace. For three years now, not that you were counting—because tallying the days would only make the whole thing feel more like a prison sentence.

You hadn’t meant to stay long. It was supposed to be temporary, a pit stop while you got your life back on track. You had dreams once—college, a degree in literature, maybe even writing for a living someday. But life didn’t give a damn about your carefully drawn plans. It threw punches instead—relentless, low, and sometimes straight to the gut. One of those sucker punches came in the form of Brad.

Brad, with his crisp suits, finance bro confidence, and that nauseating promise of “I’ll take care of you.” You were foolish enough to believe him. Quit your job. Talked about babies and engagement rings and cradles like it was all just around the corner. You even let yourself think maybe, maybe you were safe.

Turns out Brad liked the idea of commitment more than the reality of it. Or maybe his assistant just sucked—well, blew—him into believing she was a better option. Joke’s on her, really. Brad never lasted long. Five seconds in heaven, if that, and especially quick if you’d warmed him up with your mouth first. You sometimes grinned thinking about her—about how she probably thought she hit the jackpot, not realizing she’d signed up for a lifetime subscription to disappointment.

Brad was a grown-up mama’s boy with the emotional range of a teaspoon and a superiority complex the size of Texas. Honestly, him leaving you? A blessing. At the time it felt like getting flattened by a train in slow motion, but now? You saw it for what it was: a much-needed escape.

Still, he left you with the rent and no job. So you took the first thing you could find that paid fast—Tom’s Diner. The hours were ungodly, the tips mediocre, and the grease-stained uniform never quite stopped smelling like onions and despair. But the paycheck cleared, and that was all that mattered.

Over time, the diner became a kind of strange orbit. You didn’t have a social life anymore, just this odd constellation of coworkers who floated around the same gravitational hellhole. There was Marla, the older waitress who'd been there so long her name was carved into the break room table. She was kind in that no-nonsense way that only people who've seen too much can be. Smelled like menthols and lavender hand cream, her laugh hoarse from decades of smoke breaks and bad coffee. She always called you “kid,” even though you were probably only fifteen years younger.

Then there was Rick, the line cook with slicked-back hair and a temper that only grilled cheese could soothe. His only real culinary skill was making the perfect grilled cheese—golden, crispy, gooey in the center, and just enough butter to make your arteries cry. But damn, that sandwich could fix your day better than therapy ever could. He had a thing for conspiracy theories and wouldn’t shut up about the moon landing being fake, but he never burned your order, so you let it slide.

And, of course, Tom. The owner. A walking, talking cautionary tale about what happens when someone cares more about the cash register than the humans working behind it. Tom didn’t give a shit about food quality, customer service, or employee morale. He cared about two things: not getting shut down and not spending money. You once caught him spraying pesticide while the pantry door was open. Roaches skittered like it was rush hour in there, and he just waved a hand and told you not to tell anyone unless you wanted to be jobless.

But in a weird, twisted way, it was your place now. Your version of normal. Your dysfunctional, smoke-scented, roach-infested routine. And as depressing as that sounded, it was also oddly comforting. Because when life knocks you flat on your ass, sometimes all you can do is find a spot to land and figure out your next move—even if that spot smells like bacon grease and floor cleaner.

The regulars at Tom’s were their own cast of recurring tragedy, comedy, and everything in between. Most were locals who didn’t have anywhere better to be, or they did, but this place was easier somehow—less judgmental than home, cheaper than therapy, and just greasy enough to feel like comfort.

There was Old Joe, who always sat in the same booth by the window with a black coffee he never finished and a crossword puzzle he rarely got past the third clue. Rumor had it he was a widower, used to be a history teacher. Sometimes he mumbled facts to himself—dates, names, half-remembered battles—and Marla once said she thought he just liked being around voices again.

Then there was Candy, not her real name, but that’s what she told everyone to call her. She wore leopard print like it was a personality trait, her eyeliner sharp enough to kill. She claimed she used to be a showgirl in Vegas, but you had your doubts. Still, her stories were good enough to believe for five minutes, and that’s all anyone really needed in a place like this.

Most of the men, though? Less charming. The diner uniform—short skirt, tight blouse—was probably designed by someone who’d never worked a day of real service in their life. It clung and rode up and made you feel more exposed than you ever wanted to be on a Tuesday morning during the hash brown rush. You caught stares constantly, eyes following you like they had the right, and more than once, hands tried to test the boundary between appropriate and disgusting. The first time it happened—some sweaty man in a plaid shirt grazing your thigh as you passed by with a tray—you froze. Your heart punched against your ribs, nausea climbing your throat.

Then Marla stepped in. Swatted his hand with a rolled-up menu and said, loud enough for the entire diner to hear, “Touch her again and I’ll break every finger you got, you crusty son of a bitch.” And that was that. You learned quickly—how to step out of reach, how to hold a coffee pot like a weapon, how to laugh things off even when your skin crawled. It didn’t stop it from happening, not entirely. But it dulled the edge. You got used to it.

Still, not everyone was like that.

One of the newer regulars started showing up about four months ago, right at six p.m., like clockwork. He looked like he got lost in the '80s and decided to make it home. Wore shorts no matter the weather, ridiculously high socks with prints you still hadn’t figured out—pineapples? Dinosaurs? Both?—and sneakers that looked like they’d survived several apocalypses. His t-shirts were always faded beyond recognition, and, most memorably, he wore this beige thermal vest like it was the pinnacle of fashion, even though it did absolutely nothing for him.

But once you looked past the fashion crimes, something about him stuck.

He had warm brown eyes—kind, but tired. Not in a drained-by-life way, more like someone who'd seen a lot and wasn’t shocked by much anymore. His hands were big, the kind that looked like they could fix a car or hold a person without letting go. He wrapped them around his chipped diner mug like it was keeping him grounded. His shoulders were broad, arms strong beneath that hideous vest, and his face was framed by a full mustache and a bit of scruff, like he shaved just often enough not to be mistaken for a drifter.

The first time he spoke to you, really spoke to you, he cleared his throat awkwardly while you were refilling his coffee. “What’s the menu of the day?” he asked, voice low and a little gravelly.

You answered automatically, your server voice polished and quick. But then his eyes met yours—really met them—and the rest of the words died on your tongue. There was something in the way he looked at you, not like you were on display, not like he expected anything. Just… seeing you.

He gave you a quiet nod, one corner of his mouth twitching up into the faintest smile. It wasn’t much. But it knocked something loose in your chest, left you a little breathless. You turned on your heel so fast you nearly tripped over your own shoes, face flaming, heart tapping out a stupid rhythm in your ears.

After that, you paid more attention. Not because you wanted to—okay, maybe a little because you wanted to—but because something about him made you curious. Curious in a way you hadn’t let yourself be in a long time.

And he kept coming back. Same time. Same booth. Always alone. Always watching the world quietly from behind his coffee cup, like he was waiting for something. Or someone.

After a few weeks—and with Marla’s cigarette-scented breath always a little too close to your shoulder—you learned his name was Kermit.

You had to excuse yourself to the back and laugh into the crook of your elbow.

Kermit. Like the fucking muppet.

The irony wasn’t lost on you. He didn’t look like a Kermit. He looked like a Hank, or maybe a Jack—something solid and a little weathered. But Kermit? That was a curveball.

Still, once the name attached itself, you couldn’t imagine calling him anything else.

Every day, he showed up at the same time—6 p.m. sharp, like his internal clock was set to diner hours. And every day, something in you felt just a little bit lighter when you saw that ridiculous beige vest and the worn-out sneakers step through the door.

He never missed. Not once. Even if it rained. Even if the place was packed or dead quiet or the kitchen had just caught fire (which had happened once—grease trap, Marla blamed Rick, Rick blamed ghosts).

And at some point, you realized he watched you.

Not in the way most men did. Not the strip-you-down, up-and-down kind of watching. No, he watched like he noticed you. Like he saw how your smile tightened by hour six, or how your shoulders dropped when the dinner rush finally slowed. His gaze tracked you as you moved between tables, eyes soft but unreadable, like he was memorizing your patterns.

When it came time to pay, it was always you. He made sure of it. Sometimes with a quiet “Could I get her?” nod in your direction. Sometimes he didn’t even have to ask—Marla would just toss you the check with a smirk and a muttered, “Loverboy’s waiting.”

You rolled your eyes the first few times. But then it became a rhythm. A little ritual. Something stable in the mess of chipped plates, burnt coffee, and customers who acted like their eggs being over medium instead of over easy was a federal offense.

Kermit tipped well, always. Better than anyone else. Enough to make you feel guilty for noticing it, even though that wasn’t why you started watching him back.

Because somewhere between the first nod and the tenth refill, something shifted. You found yourself looking for him before the door even opened. Catching yourself adjusting your apron or fixing your hair in the reflection of the coffee machine before his usual time.

It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t even logical.

But every time those brown eyes found yours across the room, something inside you paused. Like for just a second, nothing else mattered but the way he held his mug—steady, deliberate—like it kept him grounded, and you almost wished he’d hold you that way instead.

Which was, frankly, ridiculous. You didn’t even know his last name. And he wore thermal vests in June.

But logic didn’t stand much of a chance against something slow-burning and magnetic. Not in Tom’s Diner. Not when Kermit kept showing up like he was meant to.

It was a lie.

The coffee was shit. Burnt and watery, with powdered creamer and sugar packets that stuck to your fingers. The food? Barely passable. Rick’s idea of seasoning was salt, more salt, and occasionally dropping the food on the greasy floor for flavor.

But he came anyway. Every damn day.

And it wasn’t the coffee. It was you.

You were young. Way too young for him. Mid-twenties, maybe. Radiant in a way that wasn’t showy—something quieter. Like sunlight on dust motes, not a spotlight. Your uniform was short and terrible, the kind of thing a creep like Tom thought passed for “quirky retro,” but you wore it like armor, chin up, back straight, always moving.

Kermit didn’t even know your name for the first couple weeks. Didn’t need to. He just watched—carefully, respectfully—learning you in fragments.

The way you leaned into the counter at the end of a long shift, shoulders sagging like someone who carried too much and kept doing it anyway. The way you had this tiny furrow between your brows when you took orders, like you didn’t trust people to get it right. The way your laugh—when it came—broke out like you hadn’t meant to let it free.

You weren’t just beautiful. You were real. And Kermit, who hadn’t let himself feel much of anything in years, started to look forward to those stolen glimpses like they were oxygen.

He stayed longer some nights. Not always, just when he couldn’t help himself. Sat with his hands wrapped around a chipped mug, pretending to read the paper or stare at the muted television, when really he was just watching you move around the place like gravity didn’t stand a chance.

And he never overstepped.

He knew better. He was too old, too tired, and too damn aware of how the world worked. He wasn’t stupid—he knew you were out of his league in every way that mattered. You deserved someone with energy, a clean past, a working truck that didn’t rattle like a death trap at red lights.

Still, some things crept in.

The way you flushed that one time when your eyes locked—he saw it. The way your voice softened when you greeted him, like he was something familiar and safe. Like maybe, maybe, he wasn’t imagining all of it.

Then came the night it rained.

It poured, actually. Fat, angry drops hammering the windows like fists. Marla, at least that’s what her name tag said, had already called it and headed out with a plastic bag over her hair. The diner had mostly cleared, but he stayed, hands loose around his mug, watching you mop up a spill near the counter.

“You got a ride?” he asked, low, careful.

You looked up, a little startled, brow furrowing the way it always did when you thought too much. “Nah. I’ll walk. It’s not far.”

He hesitated. Then: “Let me take you. I don’t mind.”

Your eyes searched his, and he held still—didn’t move, didn’t let himself hope too hard. And then, after a long beat, you nodded.

“Okay. Just this once.”

The drive was short. Silent. Sweet torture.

His truck—older than you, definitely—smelled like dust and oil and the faint ghost of pine-scented air freshener from two owners ago. The windshield wipers groaned in protest, squeaking out a slow rhythm as they dragged across the glass. You sat beside him, close enough that he could feel your warmth, hear the faint brush of your fingers against your damp jacket.

You said “thank you” when he pulled up in front of your place.

Just that. Soft, gentle, heartbreaking.

He watched you step out and jog to the entrance under the downpour, hair already clinging to your cheeks, and for a second, you turned back and gave him a little wave. Then the door closed behind you, and he was alone again.

That night— He touched himself for the first time in years to something that wasn’t just porn. It was to the image of you. To your soft smile. To the sound of your voice wrapped around those two simple words. To the warmth you’d left behind in the passenger seat.

And when he came, quietly, into the calloused grip of his own hand, it wasn’t dirty or desperate.

It felt like aching. Like longing. Like a hunger that had nothing to do with lust and everything to do with needing something to matter again.

After the night he drove you home, something shifted.

You were sweeter than usual. Not in some forced way—Kermit would’ve noticed that. It was in the way you lingered a little longer at his table. The way your fingers brushed his knuckles when you passed him the check, like you didn’t mean to, but didn’t exactly pull away either. The way your smile seemed… softer now. A little slower to bloom, like you were letting him see a piece of it you didn’t show everyone else.

And he couldn’t resist it. Not even if he wanted to.

He told himself he’d keep the distance. That it was a line he wouldn’t cross. He was older, rough around the edges, with a truck that sounded like a dying animal and a spine that cracked every time he got out of it. You were still full of spark, trying to make rent and claw your way back to some version of the life you wanted. The diner wasn’t your final stop—it was a stepping stone. He could feel it in your bones.

But damn if you didn’t make it impossible not to fall.

That next week, you stopped by with his coffee like you always did, and he said something dry about the weather—just to fill the space, not expecting anything. You leaned on the counter and rolled your eyes with a little grin.

“It’s June and I had to wring out my bra before my shift. Tell me that’s not grounds for emotional trauma.”

Kermit snorted. Snorted. Like some awkward teenager.

Your eyes lit up like you’d won something. “Did you just—was that an actual sound? Jesus, I think I’ve cracked the code.”

He grinned, helpless to stop it, and shook his head. “Careful. You’ll ruin my reputation.”

“Oh yeah?” you teased, leaning in just slightly. “What is your reputation, exactly?”

“Grumpy old guy who tips well and doesn’t talk much.”

“Hmm.” You tapped a finger against your chin, pretending to think. “Add surprisingly nice driver with a mysterious past and we might have a Hallmark movie.”

That made him laugh again, a real one this time. Low and warm and unfamiliar in his chest.

You left to take another order, and Kermit watched you go, a tight pull settling low in his stomach. The kind that felt dangerous in the best way. The kind that made him realize he wasn’t just falling for you—

He already had.

And it was fast. And it was reckless. And it made no goddamn sense.

But it was real. Realer than anything had felt in years.

He started memorizing the way you moved, the way you smelled like cinnamon and cheap coffee and rain-soaked pavement. The way your voice dropped when you were tired. The way you tucked your hair behind your ear when you were focused. The way you smiled without knowing you were doing it.

He should’ve been scared. Hell, he was scared.

But he also felt alive again.

And for a man like Kermit, that was worth everything.

You noticed the shift almost immediately.

The way Kermit’s eyes held onto you a little longer. The way he smiled more—barely there, but enough for you to feel it warm between your ribs like something precious. Something secret.

He didn’t say much more than usual. Still reserved. Still guarded. But there was something about him now—something almost like softness underneath the scruff and sarcasm. A warmth that simmered low and steady, and you found yourself leaning closer to it like a moth to a flame.

You tried not to read into it too much. Told yourself you were just imagining it. That he was polite, that’s all. Generous with tips. Quiet. Unassuming.

But then you'd catch him looking when you weren’t supposed to notice.

You’d turn away from another table, and there he was—his eyes already on you, his hand wrapped around the coffee mug like it was anchoring him to the moment. You’d brush past him and feel the air shift. Like his gaze was a tether you’d suddenly walked into.

And god, your mind went places. Stupid, reckless, filthy places you had no business wandering off to.

You thought about those hands of his—broad, strong, with rough fingers and dirt beneath his nails that never seemed to fully go away no matter how clean he looked. You imagined how they’d feel on your skin. If they’d be gentle or greedy. If he’d press you into the wall of his truck with the same firm steadiness he used to hold his mug. You imagined his mouth—how it might taste like coffee and rain and cigarettes, how it would move slow at first, like he hadn’t kissed anyone in years and didn’t want to fuck it up.

Some nights, you’d be on autopilot during your shift, smiling at customers while your head drifted into daydreams that curled hot between your thighs. Kermit, leaning over you in the back alley, one hand braced against the brick wall behind your head, the other beneath your skirt. Kermit, pulling over his truck because he couldn’t wait. Kermit, mouth low against your neck, saying your name like a secret too big to keep.

You never let it show, not really.

Maybe you lingered at his table a little longer than necessary. Maybe your fingers brushed his a few too many times. Maybe you smiled differently when he was around. But that was it. Because he was still distant. Kind, yes. Attentive, even. But guarded like a man who’d built walls too tall to even remember what was on the other side.

You didn’t know what held him back—age, history, maybe just the fact that you were a little too alive for someone who looked like they’d already been through hell and didn’t trust heaven.

So you played it safe. Kept the fantasies tucked behind your eyes, replayed in the quiet dark of your apartment when you were alone. Imagined what it would be like if he wanted you back. If he ever looked at you and saw more than just a diner girl who brought him coffee and called him Kermit, like the fucking muppet.

But you felt something in him. Some pull that matched yours.

And god, you hoped you weren’t wrong.

The place was dead.

Dead in that eerie, almost sacred way it sometimes got after ten, when the air turned still and the fluorescents buzzed low above your head like they were holding secrets. No customers, no clatter, not even the hiss of the fryer. Just Marla muttering to herself while scrubbing at that goddamn stain near booth four—like she was trying to erase years of sins baked into the tile—and Rick humming something off-key in the kitchen, probably stoned, probably still convinced his grilled cheese deserved a Michelin star.

And Kermit, always Kermit.

Staring out the window like the street had something worth looking at. Like his mind was somewhere far, far away.

You hadn’t meant to take the shot—just a quick nip of cheap whiskey behind the counter—but your fingers had trembled when you poured it, and you knocked it back like it was medicine. Liquid courage. Fire in your throat. A flush of clarity.

Your heart beat fast but steady as you stepped toward him. Toward the booth he always claimed like it had his name carved into the vinyl.

You didn’t ask permission.

You just slid into the seat across from him and watched the way his body jolted, the slow turn of his head, the way his brows climbed in surprise. He looked at you like maybe he’d conjured you with a thought and now didn’t know what to do with the result.

“Am I imagining this?” you asked, voice low, clear, sharp.

His lips parted, but no sound came for a second. Just breath. Then—

“What?”

You tilted your head, your gaze steady. “This. Whatever this is between us. You look at me like I’m not real. Like you’re waiting for me to disappear.”

He stared at you, jaw working, words caught behind teeth.

Then, finally, he breathed out, voice rough and laced with that honest ache you weren’t ready for.

“This shouldn’t be happening.” A shake of his head. “You’re—you’re too young. And I’m too fucked up.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but he kept going.

“I’ve got years I don’t talk about. Mistakes I don’t let people get close enough to find. And this,” he gestured between you with a vague, helpless hand, “you shouldn’t waste whatever this is on someone like me.”

You leaned in.

“I’m not wasting anything.”

“You don’t know me.”

“I want to.”

He ran a hand over his face, like he could scrub away the pull between you, but it only made him look more human. Tired, worn, beautiful in that bruised way.

“I’ve got ghosts. And regrets. And a body that creaks when I stand too fast. You deserve someone with a future, not just a past.”

You didn’t flinch.

Instead, you pushed away from your seat, rounded the table slowly, your breath shallow, pulse loud. His eyes followed every move like he couldn’t believe you were real.

When you reached him, you hesitated—just a beat—before sliding into his lap, sideways. His body stiffened beneath you, the muscles in his thighs going taut. His hand hovered, then landed gently at your waist. Not pulling you in, not pushing you away. Just there.

You were so close now you could count the lines by his mouth, the gray strands in his mustache, the way his pupils darkened as they settled on your lips.

The air buzzed. Thick and electric.

You placed your hand against his chest—steady, solid, thudding with restrained thunder—and looked straight into him.

“Tell me you don’t want this,” you whispered. “Don’t wanna feel this, and I’ll leave.”

Silence.

“But if there’s even a small part that feels the same,” your voice cracked with truth, “don’t push me away.”

His grip on your waist tightened—just slightly. His breath caught.

You were warm.

That was the first thing Kermit registered—the heat of you sinking into his lap like it was always meant to happen. The weight of you wasn't heavy, it was grounding. Real. Too real.

And it lit something up in him so bright it bordered on painful.

His hand hovered at your waist like it was holding a live wire, barely resting there, fingers twitching against the curve of you. You smelled like soap and coffee and something softer he’d never be able to name without sounding stupid. Your hair brushed his jaw as you leaned in closer, breath mingling with his, and every instinct in his body screamed to move—grab you, hold you, kiss you until neither of you remembered why it was wrong.

Because god, it was wrong. Wasn’t it?

But you were looking at him like he was the miracle.

And Kermit, poor stupid Kermit, felt like a man cracking open down the middle after years of holding himself together with spit and duct tape.

When you said “don’t push me away,” it split something in him. He didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink.

He felt everything—your thigh pressed along his, your fingers against his chest, the exact way your weight settled like a secret between his hips. His body reacted before his mind could catch up—heat flooding low and fast, shame hot on its heels. He swallowed hard, forcing his muscles to stay still, to behave, to respect you even as his blood betrayed him in every possible way.

Because this wasn’t porn. This wasn’t a fantasy with the volume down and the lights off.

This was you.

And he’d never touched himself to anything real until you stepped out of his truck that night, flashing him that small, earth-shattering smile and whispering thank you like it meant more than just a ride home.

His hand curled tighter around your waist now, gently, just to keep you from slipping away too soon. He wanted—fuck, he wanted everything. But he couldn’t move. Couldn’t trust himself if he did.

Then—

“Hey! Need a hand back here or I’m burning the fuckin’ toast again!” Rick’s voice cracked through the moment like a thunderclap.

You startled just slightly, blinking like the spell had been broken. Kermit didn’t dare breathe, barely dared to look at you as you slipped off his lap with a grace that made him ache.

You didn’t say anything right away.

Instead, you reached for a napkin from the dispenser and pulled a pen from the tiny chest pocket of your waitress uniform. Kermit watched, half in awe, half in full-blown panic, as you scribbled something fast and slid it across the table toward him.

Your number.

He stared at it, then up at you.

You just smiled—soft, knowing—and turned on your heel like nothing seismic had just happened.

Kermit sat there frozen, napkin under his hand like it might burn through his skin. He was terrified and the happiest he’d been in years.

Kermit never thought he’d retire his old flip phone—not for a boss, not for a daughter who begged him to get "with the times," not even after the third time he accidentally dunked it in his coffee. But for you? Shit. You made him do a lot of things he never planned to.

So there he was, in the dim light of his trailer, squinting at a glowing screen way too bright for his tired eyes, typing with thick, calloused fingers that moved like he was defusing a bomb. It took him ten minutes to send a single message, autocorrect fighting him like a damn rodeo bull, but when he saw your name light up with a reply, it was worth every frustrating second. 

You texted like you talked—fast, clever, a little wicked—and God help him, it undid him. The emojis confused the hell out of him, the peach made him break a sweat, and your teasing had his mustache twitching and his cock straining before he could even find the “send” button. You were even more dangerous over text, throwing out lines like “i’m counting on it being hard” and “show me what those big hands could type if you weren’t holding back,” and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t sit there staring at your words for a long, hungry moment. 

You made him feel like a man again—young, wanted, alive in a way that terrified him—but he wasn’t backing down. Not from this. Not from you. So he tightened his jaw, rolled his shoulders back, and typed like hell, knowing he was way out of his depth—and wanting you anyway.

You’d asked him once, over lukewarm coffee and a shared cigarette break behind the diner, about the scar on his ribs. He told you it wasn’t a scar—it was a brand. From a ship that lit up the woods behind his trailer , left him dazed in a cornfield three hours later with radio static in his teeth. You’d laughed, but not cruelly—like you wanted to believe him. And ever since, it became a running thing between you two. Jokes about tin foil hats, the aliens that "took him and ran" instead of marrying him, and that time you asked if they probed his heart too.

Tonight, you sent the message while lying in bed, half-wrapped in a blanket, still flushed from thinking about the way his eyes lingered on you all shift.

12:17 AM — You

you up or dreaming of alien abductions again 👽

12:21 AM — Kermit

wide awake. no green men tonight. just thinking of a waitress who won’t leave my damn head.

12:22 AM — You

she sounds hot.she got legs for days and a smart mouth?

12:26 AM — Kermit

and eyes like she knows too much. dangerous combo.

12:28 AM — You

only if you’re scared of being seen (which you totally are, btw)

12:33 AM — Kermit

i’ve been shot at. chased by wild boars. abducted by something i still can’t explain. but yeah, you scare the shit outta me.

12:35 AM — You

good. i scare easy too. like when your hand brushed my thigh last night and i felt it for an hour after

12:39 AM — Kermit

jesus. you’re not playin fair.

12:40 AM — You

never said i would. you ever think about kissing me?

12:44 AM — Kermit

every night since you sat in my lap. every goddamn night

12:45 AM — You

what are you thinking about right now?

12:48 AM — Kermit

your voice. your legs in that damn uniform. the sound you’d make if i pressed you up against the side of my truck and told you what i want

12:51 AM — You

i’m not wearing much. you’d hate it. it’s sinful

12:53 AM — Kermit

send help (i lied. i’d fall to my knees for a single goddamn glimpse)

12:55 AM — You

one day you might earn it, old man.

12:57 AM — Kermit

one day i’ll show you what slow, hungry patience feels like. not a damn thing rushed.

12:58 AM — You

i might not last that long.

1:01 AM — Kermit

then we’re both in trouble.

You noticed it the second he walked in.

He looked nervous?

Not like jittery or uneasy, but something softer. Something quieter, like he'd ironed the creases out of his shirt with his hands and smoothed his hair a little more than usual in the cracked rearview of his truck. There was no thermal vest today, which was tragic in its own way—but he wore one of those old flannel shirts that fit just right across his shoulders and clung to his forearms every time he moved. You were trying to be normal, just like you had the night before when he lit your phone up with slow, hot honesty that left you squirming under your covers.

But now, with him standing in front of your booth, his coffee going cold on the counter behind him and his hands tucked awkwardly into the pockets of his jeans, it was near impossible.

“Hey,” he said, gruff as ever, but there was a hitch to it—like maybe he’d practiced it in the truck and forgot halfway through.

“Hey yourself.” You smiled. Too wide, maybe. You couldn’t help it.

He scratched at his jaw, looking away for a second, before shifting his weight like the floor suddenly got too hot under his shoes. “So… I was thinkin’. Been comin’ here a while. Drinkin’ way too much bad coffee just to see you in that goddamn uniform…”

You tilted your head. “Kermit…”

“What if—just what if—I bought you coffee that wasn’t sludge for once?” he finished, voice a touch too fast and way too hopeful for the man who usually looked like nothing in the world could rattle him. “Or dinner. Or somethin’. Somethin’ that ain’t here, and not just ‘cause I wanna look at your legs without Marla breathin’ down my neck.”

Your heart did a stupid, warm little stutter.

You leaned forward on the counter, propping your chin in your palm as you smiled at him like you’d waited weeks for this—which, honestly, you had.

“Are you asking me on a date, Kermit?”

He shrugged, then nodded, then cleared his throat. “I am, yeah. If that’s alright.”

You pretended to think about it, just for the drama of it all. But then you pushed the sugar jar toward him with two fingers, soft and slow, and murmured, “Took you long enough, old man.”

And the way his face lit up, subtle but unmistakable, like someone let the sun leak in through all his tired cracks, yes, this was your undoing. 

You took a rare day off—the kind you usually reserved for illness or breakdowns, not… dates. But this wasn’t just any date. It was him. So you took extra care getting ready, slipping into something soft and cute that didn’t smell like fryer grease and linoleum floor cleaner. Something that made you feel a little bit more like you, the version that existed before Tom’s Diner and soul-sucking routines.

Kermit showed up right on time. Of course he did. And when you opened your door and saw him standing there—jeans pressed, thermal vest swapped for a collared shirt that made your mouth go dry—with flowers of all things, you nearly folded. No man had ever brought you flowers before. Not Brad, not anyone. And it wasn’t even a flashy bouquet. Just a simple mix of sunflowers and wild daisies, probably picked with care and a little uncertainty. That detail alone? Melted you.

Dinner was at a small, surprisingly charming bistro tucked away from the main street. Nothing fancy, just good food and soft lighting. Kermit pulled out your chair, looked a little stiff doing it like it had been a while, and you adored him for trying. Over shared fries and whatever pasta special he insisted you had to try, he started opening up.

“I was in the army,” he said quietly, not like he was ashamed, but like it was a detail he didn’t offer up unless it mattered. “Long time ago now.”

You didn’t interrupt. You just listened.

“Married once. Didn’t work out. We were kids, really.” A shrug, then a smile, “Got a daughter though. She’s twenty-five. Smart. Got her mom’s fire.”

You blinked. That was close to your age.

He must’ve seen the flicker across your face because he leaned back and added quickly, “I get it if that weirds you out.”

“It doesn’t,” you said without pause. “You light up when you talk about her. That’s never a bad thing.”

And from there everything softened. The wine, the conversation, the invisible weight he’d been carrying. Laughter slipped out easy. At one point you made a joke about how you were never going back to Tom’s after this and he smiled in that crooked, rare way that made your stomach flip.

It didn’t matter—not the age gap, not the lines time carved into his face or the fact that you came from completely different lives. Chemistry didn’t ask for permission. It just was.

When he drove you home, he walked you to your door and you caught the nervous edge in him again—shoulders a bit tense, thumb dragging over the skin of his palm like he wasn’t sure how to move forward.

So you did it for him.

You leaned up and kissed him like you’d been wanting to for weeks, maybe even months. Like a dam bursting. Kermit groaned low in his throat, a sound you felt all the way down your spine. He braced one hand against the door beside your head, the other curling around your waist like he couldn’t believe this was real—like if he didn’t hold on, you’d disappear.

“You got no idea the shit I wanna do to you,” he rasped into your ear, voice rough and reverent all at once.

Next thing you knew, your door creaked open behind you, and you were inside—his hands never leaving your body.

It wasn’t clumsy, but it wasn’t graceful either—the kind of rush that happened when too many weeks of wanting finally snapped the thread. You stumbled with him, tangled together, breathless laughter and desperate hands guiding you toward the nearest surface—which, of course, was the couch. Definitely not your bed. Kermit slumped down, legs spread wide like he belonged there, and when he patted his thigh with a half-smirk, half-dare, you didn’t hesitate. You climbed into his lap like you’d been born for it, settling against him, your knees bracketing his hips, his big hands already claiming their place on your waist.

You fit there too well. Like a puzzle piece he didn’t know he’d been missing.

His mouth found yours again and fuck—it was electric. Better than you’d dared to fantasize. Every kiss was deep and aching, a collision of want and restraint, and when his lips trailed down your neck, lingered at your collarbone, you tilted your head to give him more. His fingers worked at your clothes with a reverent urgency, peeling away fabric like each layer was a secret he’d waited too long to learn. And for every inch of skin revealed, he left a kiss—open, warm, needy.

But his mouth, god.

The filth that fell from his lips, murmured against your skin like confession, had your thighs clenching around him before you even realized.

“So fuckin’ soft,” he groaned against your chest, voice gravel and honey. “Been losin’ my mind thinkin’ about how you’d sound underneath me.”

Your breath hitched.

“Wanted to taste you since the damn diner. Every time you handed me a check, I thought about you on your knees instead.”

He kissed lower, dragging his tongue down between your breasts, hands spreading across your back as he held you tighter, like he still couldn’t believe this was happening.

“You look like sin sittin’ in my lap, you know that?”

You moaned before you could stop yourself, your hips shifting instinctively against the hard length of him beneath his jeans, and he hissed through his teeth.

“Shit, baby—keep movin’ like that and I’m gonna come before I even get you outta these clothes.”

You laughed, breathless, and leaned down to bite his bottom lip in return.

“Guess you better hurry, then.”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

With a low, breathy curse, Kermit laid you back, his rough palms guiding you down as though he was afraid you’d vanish. He hovered over you for a moment, his eyes drinking you in—wide, dark, starving—before he tugged off his clothes in a rush. You tried to help, your hands fumbling with buttons and denim, but he was faster, more frantic, and all you could really do was watch and ache.

When he finally bared himself, it took your breath away—not just because of the body, solid and scarred and strong, but the way he looked at you. Like worship. Like you were the answer to a prayer he’d long forgotten he made.

You laid there, splayed and already trembling, and his gaze narrowed, heat flickering in it before he dipped low again. His mouth claimed your breasts first—kissing, licking, sucking until your nipples were aching and slick, his teeth grazing just enough to make your hips jerk. He left bites lower too, down your ribs, across the soft curve of your belly—marks you knew would bloom into bruises by morning, and you didn’t care. You wanted them. Wanted him, feral and raw.

There was nothing shy about the way he touched you. Nothing half-hearted. Kermit was all need, all groaning devotion. When his thick fingers found your pussy, already dripping for him, he grinned—a wicked, pleased thing—and swiped them through your folds slow, almost lazy.

"You’re soaked for me, baby,” he murmured, voice thick with awe and something more guttural. “All that mouth and you’re still this fuckin’ sweet.”

You gasped as he circled your clit, teasing, then lower—one thick finger pushing inside, curling with cruel precision. He didn’t look away. Not once.

“Look at me,” he said, quiet but firm, like an order, and when your eyes fluttered open to meet his, it nearly undid you. “Wanna see what your face does when I make you fall apart.”

Another finger joined the first, his palm grinding against your clit, and you cried out, bucking into his hand shamelessly.

“That’s it,” he growled. “Ride my fingers, baby. Show me how bad you wanted this.”

And god help you—you did.

Your first climax hit like a freight train—hard, fast, and so overwhelming it stole the air from your lungs. You trembled under him, thighs tightening around his hips as he coaxed you through it, not stopping for even a second. Kermit watched you fall apart, his fingers working you with relentless precision, and the raw awe in his voice when he murmured, “That’s it, baby, fuck—look at you,” made the aftershocks roll even harder. You’d never felt more wanted in your life. Not just desired—craved.

When the wave finally began to settle, you blinked up at him, dazed and glowing and undone. He bent to kiss your neck, the press of his lips suddenly so soft, so tender, it made your eyes sting. Then he kissed your mouth—harder, more desperate—like he couldn’t get enough.

He pulled back only slightly, voice gravel-rough and breath shaky. “You on anything?” he asked, thumb brushing your cheek. “'Cause I wanna feel all of you. Every inch. Every fuckin’ heartbeat.”

You nodded, almost breathless, and that was all he needed.

He sat back on his knees, fist wrapping around the thick length of his cock—god, he was big, his hand not even able to cover the whole of it—and stroked once, twice, slow and steady, just to ease the tension. The sight alone made your mouth water. He was so hard, so flushed and beautiful in a way that felt almost unfair—chest heaving, veins in his arms taut, sweat sliding down the lines of his body.

Then he leaned forward and pressed in—the angry red tip nudging at your slick entrance, and you mewled, the anticipation almost too much to bear.

“Jesus,” he rasped, forehead brushing yours. “You’re so fuckin’ tight.”

And then—one thrust. A slow, devastating slide as he sank into you inch by thick, relentless inch. The stretch made you cry out, nails digging into his back, the burn delicious and blinding.

He stilled once fully sheathed, letting you breathe, chest rising and falling against yours. His voice was nothing but a breath in your ear: “You okay?”

You nodded, still pulsing around him, and he began to move—rolling his hips in a deep, measured grind that sent a spark of pleasure straight to your spine. But the moment he sensed you were ready, when your moans shifted from whimpers to want, he didn’t hold back. Not anymore.

He fucked into you, brutally slow at first, then faster, rougher, pounding you into the couch cushions with obscene rhythm. Each thrust pushed you higher, dragged cries from your throat and made the heat build all over again.

“Feel so fuckin’ good,” he groaned. “Takin’ me so well, baby—so goddamn perfect.”

Your second orgasm crested with dizzying speed, the angle and pace too much, too perfect—and when it broke, your whole body arched, shuddering beneath him as you clenched around his cock, stars bursting behind your eyelids.

Kermit’s breath hitched, pace faltering just enough for you to feel the shift. His hands gripped your waist, grounding him, and then his whole body locked—deep groan dragging from his chest as he came, hot and thick and deep inside you. His head dropped to your shoulder, body trembling with release as he spilled into you, breath ragged, hips grinding slow, needy aftershocks.

You’d never seen anything like it—how beautiful he was in that moment. Lips parted, brow furrowed, eyes clenched shut like he was overwhelmed by pleasure itself.

You lay tangled on the couch, half-draped over Kermit’s broad chest, both of you still catching your breath. His hand—those big, rough, calloused hands that had touched you with the kind of reverence that broke something in you—rested warm against the bare curve of your spine. The room smelled like sweat and sex and something sweeter, something like comfort, and you closed your eyes, heart still stuttering in your chest.

Kermit was quiet, as always. But his fingers traced slow, lazy lines on your skin, the softest thing about the man who normally grunted more than he spoke. You didn’t need him to say anything. That touch said enough.

“You okay?” he murmured after a long stretch of silence, his voice wrecked and deep in a way that made you ache all over again.

“I can’t feel my legs,” you mumbled into his chest, too blissed out to move.

Kermit let out a low chuckle, one of those rare ones that rumbled from deep in his chest and warmed the room more than any furnace ever could. “That a complaint or a compliment?”

“Oh, it’s a complaint,” you teased, smirking. “Marla’s gonna see me limping around and ask if I slipped a disc. I am not emotionally prepared for that conversation.”

His hand stilled for a moment on your back, then resumed, slower now. “You want me to pick you up after your shift tomorrow?” he asked quietly, not looking at you—like if he didn’t, it wouldn’t be as terrifying to offer.

You blinked. Sat up just enough to look down at him, surprised.

“You mean in your haunted pickup with three seatbelts and the Check Engine light that’s been on since the Bush administration?”

Kermit grinned, crooked and real. “She purrs if you treat her right.”

“So do I,” you muttered, and he actually blushed. Just a little. Enough to make your heart twist in your chest.

The next day, your legs did, in fact, ache in ways that made you wince with every step. Marla raised her eyebrows, asked no questions—but her knowing smirk said she didn’t need to.

And that night, when your shift ended and the sky was painted in dark velvet, headlights cut across the lot. You stepped out, already reaching for your jacket, and there he was—Kermit, leaning against that rustbucket truck, arms crossed, looking like he had all the time in the world.

Not at the window anymore. Not watching from the booth like he used to, guarded and distant.

Now he was waiting.

For you.

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You watched the muppet throw a long, exaggerated wink at the lady from the Pentagon. You mentally apologised to Kermit the Frog for having such a namesake when he started waggling his eyebrows at her. You couldn’t blame her for looking confused and slightly put off by the duck lips. But somebody else looked very interested in your loser.

Oh no, it was Rafferty Sr. You remembered her from the McDermott funeral. Dusty took the passenger seat of your car. Instead of sitting in the middle, that hussy decided to spread herself wide on Kermit’s lap. You shoved your gear into reverse, slamming down on the accelerator so her head cracked against his nose. You turned your gear stick again, flying out of your parking spot before thumping your foot down on the brakes— uncaring of the way Colleen Sr. smacked into the headrest of the front seat while you admired the hottie with the tight ass in uniform. 

“Does that guy look a bit like Jon Hamm?” You asked. 

“Don’t be mean, he looks right handsome— nothing at all like a pig,” Dusty explained. Whatever.

Kermit was in so much trouble. He hadn’t knocked on your door like he would on the days you let him come fuck you. And seems like he planned to miss tonight. You squint your eyes as you watch him laugh it up in Rafferty’s trailer. So, that’s how it is, huh? If he thinks he gets to just strut back to yours to get his dick wet after Rafferty Sr is done playing with him, then he’s wrong. 

You slip back inside the house. You didn’t need that asshat for a nice, relaxing evening with multiple orgasms. But it was Piper you picked from your little magic box. She was old, trusty and used to be quiet as a whisper. Used to be. On the faster settings, she could wake the whole neighbourhood. And on the lowest one, Kermit could hear it across the walls of your trailer and his, just next door. Your beloved Piper— named after Pied Piper.

As you expected, a knock sounded on your door. There was an excess energy in the shuffle of his feet— almost impatient, excited. He was supposed to be in trouble tonight. But you had already climbed through the speeds of your vibrator and orgasmed once to take off the edge. And you were feeling nice and loose enough to let him in.

“Come in.” You sang over the loud humming of the wand. You could hear him shuffling around your living room and past the door of your bathroom to stand at the entrance of your bedroom. 

“You started without me?” He said as he came to stand by the foot of your bed. The twang of his accent more pronounced as he stares at the head of the vibrator against the wet, glistening folds of your pussy.

You turn off the vibrator, pulling the delicious pressure from your clit and offer it to him, “Want a taste?”

He moaned as he licked your sticky syrup from the wand. His hand massaged his bulge as he greedily took the whole head of the vibrator into his mouth. You considered turning it on then— break his fucking teeth for daring to flirt with other women. But you wouldn’t like him ugly. You eased it out of his mouth and lovingly placed it by the side table— you would need her again.

“‘yer so sweet,” He slurred as he unzipped his grey shorts, pulling them down along with his boxers to reveal his cock. It was disgusting that cock. Huge and girthy. And a damn shame it was hung on a guy like him. You felt a little ashamed that your mouth watered at the sight despite that smell. 

You tugged the hem of your oversized t-shirt so it rested against your rib cage and wantonly spread your legs for him in offer. He didn’t need to be told twice, almost stumbling over his own feet with his dick in hand to press the weeping, bulbous tip of it at your entrance. Sometimes, you wondered how he lugged that thing between his legs without falling all over the place. 

He choked out a groan as he slipped inside the hot cavern of your cunt. Yeah… this was why you couldn’t fuck anyone else in the trailer park. The pinch of a burn and then the overwhelming stretch of your pussy, as he bullied his way inside made you keen with pleasure. 

“That’s right”—his arms slipped under your knees, adjusting your hips so he was buried to the hilt—“You take me so well, baby.”

You could feel the walls of your pussy tightening around him, contracting to pull him in deeper. It wasn’t because of his compliment, you tell yourself. His dick just felt good. But a smug smirk crept over the side of his face.  

“There we go… You’ve had your panties in a twist all day. This was all you needed, wasn’t it? Just some good dickin’ down. Ya need my cock, baby? ” Ugh, no. He seems to have forgotten the time you had tied him to a chair and made him watch as you spent hours coming all over your collection of dildos. 

“Pull your t-shirt up. Need to see those gorgeous tits.” He whined. You obliged, pulling it all the way under your chin to expose your swaying boobs. His eyes were hungry as they roved. He abandoned one of your legs, bringing his hand up to slap at a nipple before kneading a palmful of flesh. You couldn’t help but moan as he brutally pinched it, twisting the poor, sensitive peak until you felt the sting of pain you often liked with your pleasure. 

He leaned down to kiss you, his features arranged in an almost apologetic expression. And… ew. When was the last time he had changed out of this greige t-shirt? Because you could almost swear you had bitten his nipples through that orange-red sun the last time you had sex. He smelled acrid, like cheap, stale deodorant that’s worn for several days, and the fabric of his top was a bit sour near his underarms and neckline. 

You pushed him away after he had barely pressed his lips to yours— putting your foot against his collarbone to ensure he stayed upright. But his confidence never took a hit. The tip of his cock brushed against some spot inside you that freed a gasping sound trapped in your throat that condensed into a moan. 

“Does that feel good, angel cake?” He asks after completely missing that spot he had previously found. 

“Yeah, that’s it— you’re just a cock-hungry slut. You love my cock, don’t you?” This man was yapping far too much for someone whose pace was stuttering. His thrusts grew shallower in a bid to go faster. His hips were jerking erratically. And that coil of tension and pleasure growing inside you started to loosen— the fizziness in your veins turned flat.

“This pussy was made for my cock. Feels so good— baby— I’m— God— she’s gripping me so tight.” Your pussy was made for his cock. But it was such a shame his equipment was in such wrong hands. 

“Slower… go slower.” You gasped. But as any man would, he took your words with smug challenge. He tried to go faster, and you wanted to yell with frustration. The opening of your pussy was starting to feel raw and sore. 

“Take it. Take all of it.” Dear God. The aliens had gotten to his brain; there was no other explanation. You took the foot off his chest, raising your limb, and in a mishap of broken thrusts and heavy pants, it landed right against his neck— knocking the wind out of his throat and pushing his chin up. He coughed, but you shoved your toes into his mouth. His frantic movements paused as his mind caught up with the situation. 

“Deep breaths through your nose.” You guided him. It was difficult to keep your foot inside his mouth as he nodded. Your muscles ached and burned as you held your leg in the air without support. But then, he licked, hesitantly and experimentally, at the thin skin between your toes. He suckled them with a groan. A dribble of saliva leaked from his mouth and slipped its way down to your ankle.

You wrested your foot out of his mouth when he started to gently nibble, your toes felt tingly while a current coursed up your legs. It was far harder to pull off his cock, but you did it with a light hiss. It felt strangely empty— only because he was so big. You flipped onto your knees and elbows, resting your head on the bed. He groaned when your ass wiggled as you situated yourself comfortably, so you teasingly swayed your hips for him.

This time when he pushed inside your cunt, you both groaned. It was so full you could feel him in your throat. And gravity seemed to be doing the work because the heft of his cock weighed against the walls of your pussy. You pushed your ass back onto him, setting that hard and deep pace you needed for the pleasure to creep up your spine again.  

You reached down to touch yourself, caressing the lips of your pussy where he was pistoning into you. You spread your fingers, they could barely frame the girth of his dick and pressed your folds to grip him tighter. He fell over your back with a grunt, his knees joining yours on the bed as he rutted into you. 

“Baby— I missed this so much. It’s been so long. Missed this pussy. Missed you.” He was blabbering into your ear. You shivered as his hot breath fanned against your ear, it raised the little hairs on your neck as it spread across your heated skin. You could smell the pungent, slightly sweet scent of booze from his mouth under the sweet mint. It was kind of sweet of him to chew some gum before coming over to yours.

“How’s it been so long? I’m sure the angels on the spaceship had spectacular pussies, Kermit.” You tried not to scoff in the silence that followed. Fucking got him. His grip on your hips faltered before tightening again. He pulled a hand away and you knew it would spank you. But knowing didn’t prepare you for the sharp sting of the blow on your ass. You giggled despite the zing it sent straight to your pussy. You clenched the walls of your cunt around him in appreciation, and he might have stopped breathing for a while, making strange gasping sounds.

“Mmm. Yeah, did fuck them.” Liar, liar, liar. “You can ask Dusty too, and Mrs. Rafferty saw them too.”—You contorted to the side and removed a single, slightly damp sock from his foot—“Real pretty, beings of light. We did it after they bathed me in this—” His words were cut off by the sock being shoved into his mouth. You buried your nose in your sheets to escape that musty smell. His fingers played with your nipples, clamping them between his knuckles and pulling. The pleasure was enough to distract you until his hips stuttered, his cock swelling inside you— no fucking way.

You furiously rubbed your clit, desperate to cum while he was still inside you. Your limbs tightened and tensed, your feet arching in anticipation,  you were thwarted by the spurts of hot cum spraying the walls of your pussy as Kermit laboured over you, his chest hair scratching over your back as his body rubbed itself back and forth, pumping his cum deeper into you. 

The force of his weight pushed you flat against the bed, he panted over you in a heap of splayed limbs. You gave a soft cry of frustration as his dick slipped out of you, crawling out from under him to reach for Piper. You knew you would need her. You always let him fuck you first and used his cock to take off the edge, it was quicker that way, and you got to come too if you helped yourself— it was always more difficult to work your way up to a second orgasm without some help.

Kermit made urgent protesting sounds as he flipped you over on your back, his words were far too muffled to make out. He stuck his face to your cunt, slobbering from the side of his mouth as his nose nuzzled your clit. You stuck a finger through his lips and pulled out the sock you had lodged there. His mouth was immediately on your pussy, making out with the folds of your lips, the hook of his nose rubbing against your clit and you moaned in encouragement— grinding your hips against his face for more friction. His stubble offered maddening friction against the sensitive skin below. 

You jerked at the feeling of his tongue roughly lapping at your swollen and red sex. It was too good to be true. No matter how many times you had trained him, this always happened. Despite his enthusiasm for eating you out, he started meandering, having completely forgotten that right up there, the most obvious little peak that was most definitely protruding out, was the clit. This just won’t do.

You rolled on the bed, taking him with you until his back was on your sheets. You flicked the buttons on the wand again, the machine whirring to life in your hand. 

“Baby, let me do this— I’ll get you there. And then we can go for round tw—” You shushed him with a finger pressed to his lips. He did have such nice, kissable lips. 

“Of course, you’ll get me off. I’m just going to help you a little, okay?” Your actions were nowhere near graceful as you turned around and straddled his chest, arching your hips so your cunt hovered tantalisingly over his face. He reached out to lick it, only managing to reach it with the tip of his tongue. 

“Kerm, you won’t get to cum again until I get to cum, got it?” You could feel him hurriedly nod between your thighs before you lowered your cunt onto his face settling your weight on him before he could form words to agree with your questions— you didn’t need to hear them. And this was much better. You used his face to get yourself off, grinding yourself back and forth so the stubble of his chin scraped against your clit and his nose nudged against the puckered hole of your butt. 

You could feel him struggling under you, sticking out his tongue and sucking on your pussy as you humped against his face. But his every grunt and groan travelled right up the fluttering walls of your pussy to the widening pool of pleasure that was building at the base of your spine. 

You gently ran the vibrator along the inside of his thigh to get him used to the sensation. His limbs flinched as if you had electrocuted him, but you bent your wrist and pressed the wand right again his asshole— insistently and just short of penetrative with enough pressure to make him keen into your cunt. His dick jumped to life. 

You stroked that cock, mostly for your entertainment than his pleasure. It felt so good in your hands, he deserved more love after spending all that time with Kermit and the idiots. But you kept your touch light and lazy even when he was desperately thrusting up into your fist. After all, you had warned him that he wouldn’t get to cum until you did. You turned up the speed of the vibrator anyway, pressing deeper against his hole before pulling it away entirely. His whining complaints were smushed against your slit.

Your clit caught against something sharp, his teeth? He nipped at you again, and you shattered over him— cumming into his mouth for several long moments. It seemed he had unhinged his jaw because you could feel his wet lower lip against the springy curls of your hair. He had suctioned the entire expanse of your opening as he greedily drank and sucked the juice off your pussy. 

A squirt of come suddenly landed on your face. Dazed, you look down to find his cock seeping cum. You desperately wanted to lean down to catch the tip in your mouth and lick him clean, but your thighs were trembling and shaking. You had abandoned the vibrator to keep your hands fisted into your sheets to hold you upright. 

Your body was still convulsing with the waves of your pleasure as another spray of cum caught your chest and nipples, some of it spilt onto your belly. Kermit was shivering and twitching under you, the vibrator was where you had left it— leaning on his balls. 

You stayed on his face long after your orgasm, your legs still feeling boneless and jelly. He made no effort to move you, just taking deep breaths of your cunt and lazily licking your release to clean you up. You turned Piper off before getting off his face and your bed to reach for your magic box. 

You looked back to see him still delirious on your bed, wide, empty eyes staring at the ceiling while his face was coated in your slimy liquid and his spit— his mouth was agape, his lips slightly pulled into a smile before he reached out to lick them.

You slipped a little bullet vibrator into the gusset of your strap, a little treat for yourself, before you reached for the pretty, pale yellow vibrator— it was his favourite colour, the same as that sleeveless puffer jacket he wears all the time. You also grabbed a bottle of lube, squirting some of it onto your hand and cock. 

He looked up at you with big, watery eyes when you brushed some of his sweaty locks off his forehead. You nudged his legs wider apart with your knee, your fingers smearing the lube over his hole before you circled and massaged it, slipping your finger inside while working the rim of his ass open to take you. You harshly seized the hair of his mullet, it felt rough and oily against your palm. The aliens hadn’t bothered washing his hair for him.

“Did the pretty aliens do this to you after you fucked them, Kermie-poo?” Your voice was sickeningly sweet and teasing. All he could manage was a choked whimper as you began pressing the vibrator inside his hole, a bit of drool gathered at the corner of his mouth. Yeah, this was more like it.

You caught his leg under his knee and spread him apart, opening the sight of his hole greedily eating up the pretty yellow vibrator until you were firmly nestled inside him. He reached for his cock that was pressing into your soft stomach, leaking wet beads of pre-cum into your belly button. But you smacked his hands away from it before he could stroke along his length, placing both of his hands at the base of your waist. 

“Watch and learn, baby.” You pulled out so only the bulbous head of the cock was inside him, and he dug his nails into your waist. 

“No, please, baby— come back. I’ll do better. I’ll learn— whatever you say, please.” He begged so prettily, the southern roll of his accent was downright endearing as he broke his sentences. You swivelled your hips as you thrust into him; he loudly moaned. You briefly considered stuffing the other sock in his mouth since that offending, smelly thing was within reach. But you wanted the entire neighbourhood to hear him— the Raffertys and the damn aliens too. 

You set the pace sufficiently long and deep and hard enough to have his eyes rolling back into his head as the curve of the vibrator pressed up against that spot inside him, robbing him of his breath. 

“Nah… you don’t gotta do any better, baby— you’re the talk of town. What with fucking angels and flirting with all those pretty girls. Nobody’s immune to your charms.” Your voice was thick with sarcasm as you chased the vibrations on your clit, greedy for your own release. 

“The angels—” 

“Hmm, yeah, you fucked them. Dusty watched you do it too. Maybe we should call him over, make him watch me fuck you so I could get some notes? I’m sure those aliens had all sorts of tricks up their sleeves. And then maybe I’ll fuck Dusty too.” You kept your tone entirely conversational as you caught both his legs, bending his knees until they were folded by his shoulders so you could change the angle as you fucked him. 

Your knee accidentally pressed the remote of his vibrator, and he screamed as the vibrations travelled through his fuckhole, tapering off into a long, drawn-out wail as you changed the speed to the lowest setting. He was crying now, tears slipping into his mullet. You wiped that wetness from the corner of his eyes, softly shushing and cooing at him.

“You can’t. You can’t fuck Dusty. You’re— we’re— you’re fucking me.” His eyes were wide and beseeching. 

“That’s okay, baby. I’m sure Colleen’s momma would love to take you for a ride.” You leaned down on him, pushing your weight onto his body so his chest hair scratched your nipples as you grabbed him by the jaw, forcing him to stare into your eyes, “And she’ll do you real nasty too.”

His cock felt hot and engorged, pitifully leaking between your bodies. The silence of the room was filled with the wet smacking of skin against skin as you rammed into him. You ignored the sting of that silence to turn up the vibrator. Ignoring his whimpers and grinding against his hole so the vibrations of your little bullet could push you towards the rising edge of your orgasm. Fuck you too, Kermit.

“Didn’t fuck aliens. ‘m just a loser—” He wailed. “Only want— fuck you.” You softened at the vulnerability in his words. Turning the vibrations down again so he could focus on your next words. 

You tugged at the mullet, fingers pinching into his coarse scalp, “You’re my pretty loser. Say it. Tell me—” 

“I’m— I’m your pretty loser.” You moaned as he cupped and harshly squeezed your ass. 

“Yeah. That’s right. All mine. Mine to fuck.”—You bit his trembling chin, not thinking too deeply about why it tugged at your heart—“Mine to love. Mine to share.” 

“Yeah, you like that. Don’t you? Maybe, if you’re a really good boy, I’ll invite Mrs. Rafferty. I think she’ll get off on having her strap in your mouth while I fuck you.” You pinched his waist, twisting his flesh until it was a lovely shade of red. He shivered as broken moans left his throat.

“You’ll do it like I taught you, right?” You turned the vibrator to the lowest setting when he didn’t respond— only the gentle buzzing permeated the air. 

“Yeah, Yeah. Won’t let you down. Promise. Please, Please—” You rewarded him with a kiss on his cheek before grabbing him by the throat. 

“It’s a good thing I like you like this. Nothing more than a mindless, cock-hungry slut.” You murmured. 

“Mmm— your cock-hungry slut.” He was jerking his hips into your pelvis to chase the vibrator with each thrust. 

“That’s right. Do you wanna see it?” Your voice sounded eager and excited to your own ears. And you were lost to your pleasure, mindless of the words leaving your mouth until you heard them. “Do you wanna see my slut take a cock. He looks pretty as a picture being my obedient little fuckhole.”

You slipped out of him, and he looked so aggrieved you almost felt bad. But you pulled him to stand in front of the vintage vanity you’d bought from the thrift store. He was a pretty sight; his doe eyes were at half mast and hazy with pleasure, and the colour was rising up his chest and neck onto his face, which was framed by dishevelled hair that gave him a rooster head. His chest and abdomen were stained with his cum, and your cum was slightly drying on the apple of his cheek. His lips were puffy— regrettably, not because you had kissed him, but because he had bitten it to silence his own sounds.  

His large, intimidating cock was angrily pointed at the mirror, curving downwards under its own weight and glistening with your combined juices. You raised his feet so he was balanced on the table of your vanity before you pushed into his puckered, winking hole again. You shoved the remote of his vibrator into his slightly parted mouth. And he obediently bit down on it like you had offered him a biscuit— it buzzed louder than ever before, and his knees buckled in front of you. 

Your hands wrapped around him to reach for his cock, lifting it to press against the small muffin-top of his belly. But his balls still obscured your view through the mirror, so you cupped them into your hand and raised them to show him the sight of that pale yellow vibrator gently thrusting up into him.

“My pretty little cocksleeve. I’m gonna buy you one of those ejaculating dildos, baby. Fuck you so full of cum, and then watch it dribble out of your gaping hole. I want to know it’s clinging onto your ass and thighs when you go hang out with your friends.”  

It was just perfect. His thighs were quivering, and his cock jolted under your hand every now and then as you massaged his balls. The bullet vibrator over your opening and the buzzing from the one over your mound had encased your core in this tinging pool of fury pleasure. 

And before you could register what was happening, you bit into the meat of his bicep, pushing impossibly deeper into him as you convulsed and shook against his back, riding the waves of your orgasm. You raked your nails against the skin of his side and chest, leaving angry, red scratch marks against his tan skin. You twisted the little peak of his nipple. He followed soon after with a hoarse shout— painting your mirror with his cum. You gently caressed his limbs as he shuddered and spasmed through his orgasm.

You’d have to clean your make-up kit and vanity table later.

He was kissing you in the shower, smelling of your shampoo, conditioner and body wash. He wasn’t half bad at it, a bit eager and enthusiastic in a telling way that he hadn’t kissed someone in a long time. And you felt his cock persistently press against your side. You lowered yourself to your knees before taking the tip of it in your mouth without any preamble. 

“Oh, um, you don’t need to do this.” 

“I want to.” You whispered, swirling your tongue around his head. 

“You didn’t want to before…” He trailed off nervously.

“Well, you weren’t my boyfriend before.” You said with a roll of your eyes. Your lips kissed the protruding vein that curved under his cock to its side— adding a little suction as you licked at its path. 

“I’m your boyfriend?” His hand flew to his forehead in surprise before he slicked his hair back, gazing down at you with a boyishly sweet smile that showed his dimples and straight teeth. 

Yeah, guess he’s kinda cute… you thought as you took his cock deeper into your mouth until his tip hit the soft palate at the very back of your throat.  

A/N: Need another monsterfucker girlie to write about him fucking those aliens on the ship. But not beautiful beings of light type of angels but more biblically accurate and maybe several tentacles with a side of mpreg type of angels. Need to knock him up. Maybe the pool they dunked him in to take away the pain also made biological changes ya know?

Full Cast

Multiple Characters

Always Here For You (12/16/2025)

Kermit The Frog

Fozzie Bear

Miss Piggy

Gonzo

Rizzo The Rat

Rowlf The Dog

Dating Headcanons (09/3/2025)

Walter Blagojevich

Scooter

Skeeter

Dr. Teeth

Dating Headcanons (9/4/2025)

Janice

Floyd Pepper

Zoot

Lips