pairing. sleazy!joel 'mullet' miller x younger fem!reader
summary: on the run and looking for a fresh start, a cheap gasoline coffee and to-do list slipping from your bag later, you (have lost your mind and) consider this stranger's proposition. ╱ 4k
warnings/tags. 18+ (minors dni), age gap (52/25), pwp, p. in v., fingering, (one) pussy spank, degradation kink, lwk breeding and exhibition kink, nasty filthy sex, public sex, one joke about kys, strangers to ???, pulled an all nighter for this yey me (its 3am and my alarm sounds at 4:10 lol) so forgive me if i made any spelling mistake, i wanna see ur comments/reblogs bc i crashed out so bad i feel like i deserve it
notes. that one girl who doesn't play abt snl. okay but who works harder? the devil or me, that only needed two pedro snl sketches and is acting like a yuppie in the 80s doing cocaine on a bathroom after work bc WOW so many new content. yes, men with mullets should die but this is pedro! song of choice for this piece is queen of the gas station by sleazy dilf patroness lana del rey. up next, renaldo inspired one shot to celebrate the snl 50 series! (update: read it here)
You liked driving at night.
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.
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.
"Really, doll? Well, lucky you" he lights up a cigarrette, trail of smoke condensing in anticipation. "'Cause that's jus'bout where I'm headed"
tags: unspecified age gap, dual POV, diner romance and aesthetic, slow burn (kind of), grumpy x sunshine, mutual pining, no physical description of reader, Kermit has a filthy mouth, dirty thoughts, masturbation, dirty talk, unprotected PiV, strangely romantic
summary: You work the late shift at a rundown diner with coffee that tastes like regret and floor stains older than you. He’s a quiet regular with a name you still can’t take seriously and eyes that see way too much. You’re not supposed to want him. He’s not supposed to want you back. But some things simmer slow—and burn fast.
notes: Had this unhinged idea and wrote the whole damn thing in one feral sitting. Also, me? Writing someone other than Frankie?? Someone call a doctor, I might be running a fever.
word count: 8,4 k
read also on ao3
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.
Kermit x f!reader (498 words): Drabble for @jolacheese Trope Search activity. There's only one 《bed》. Fun event! My blogs are 18+. Lewad is pronounced Louid.
When the bright lights lifted you off the ground, you never imagined you’d end up floating at the threshold of an alien spacecraft with two humanoids bickering about whether to let you in.
The first one gesticulated wildly. “Raldo, you fool! we have nowhere to put another earthling!”
Raldo remained calm and proposed, “We should jettison the male. You know i'm right, Lewad.”
“His name is kermit, and we aren't finished with him! Put her back down where she came from,” Lewad demanded, then apologized to you for the inconvenience.
Raldo pleaded, “Lewad, be reasonable. This one has eggs. Imagine the possibilities.”
Lewad begrudgingly paused to imagine the possibilities, then became conflicted and lamented, “But there’s only one oxygen-rich sleeping chamber.”
Raldo and Lewad slowly looked at each other as if having the same realization at the same damn time.
“The circumstances could be conducive to fertilization,” Raldo whispered loudly.
Finally they let you into the craft.
—-
The sleeping chamber was smaller than a twin bed. It was inclined and cushioned. Kermit was already positioned comfortably in the middle of the soft padding, with the chamber still open, waiting on Lewad to tuck him in. But instead, it was Raldo who came, the one who wanted to jettison him. This made Kermit suspicious, and even moreso when Raldo instructed him to take off his sleep cut-offs and vest. But kermit obeyed, then held his hands in front of himself.
“We've seen your genitals in every state, Kermit,” Raldo reminded him. “And tonight, you may want to keep those ones handy.”
“Yeah, I told you it's always there,” Kermit reminded Raldo. “I always have a dick and balls, okay? It never leaves, it never turns into–”
“-a vagina?” Lewad asked as he showed up and presented you, fully nude, to Kermit.
Kermit was taken by your beauty. Lewad explained, “We find ourselves in a situation where there are two earthlings and only one oxygen rich sleeping chamber.” The humanoids were unsuccessful at suppressing their motives. “Also,” Raldo added, “It’s going to be chilly and you may need to optimize the contiguity of your skins for warmth.”
“Yes,” Lewad nodded. Kermit scooted over to make room for you, leaving his arm for you to use as a pillow.
You were too close to the edge and had to get half on top of Kermit, face down, to optimize what little space you had.
“I hadn't seen another person in a long time,” Kermit told you in a hushed voice after the two of you were tucked/sealed in. “You are a person, right? Born on earth? Not in a lab?”
“no, of course not,” you laughed. “born on earth, just like you I presume?”
“Yeah,” he said. “It's just that, you're so perfect, I thought maybe they made you in a lab just for me.”
-
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Ty for reading 🛸 👽 👾 🛸 👽 👾 🛸
If you like crack, mine is usually on @thebrothel. 💕
Thank you to @tateypots for encouraging everyone to share their works.
For this bonus round I am posting five fics that I had an absolute blast writing. Writing does not always come easy to me, but these stories did. I was grinning like a massive goofball for these.
The Second Kind (Kermit SNL x f!reader): This was so fun to write. I think my original intent was to make this more serious, but Kerm and Scoots just kind of did their own thing. I do have another story in the works for this trio, but it's still in super early stages.
Loser Diffuser: Not Like In The Movies (Dieter Bravo x f! reader): This is my first venture into a/b/o dynamics and it's because I was like what if someone made pheromone diffusers for Alphas and Omegas? Like the plug in pheromone diffusers people get for anxious cats? Then i messaged @oonajaeadira and i was like I have had the dumbest idea in the history of dumb ideas, and she was like tell me more. And here we are. I was cackling my way through parts of this.
Needles & Pins: (tattoo artist!Ezra x f!reader) This one got a bit angsty, but i thoroughly enjoyed writing tattoo artist Ez and his beleaguered apprentice, Cee. Their banter was very fun, as was the running conversation between Ezra and Reader. He is well practised in putting someone at ease.
Tricks (Or How Bee Girl Got Seduced Into a Life of Crime): (Ezra x f!reader w/Cee) This is part of my Liminal AU but stands on its own. Halloween is my favorite holiday, and I had a ball writing Ez and reader pulling an ultimately harmless trick on their shitty neighbor.
Both Hands (Pero Tovar x f!reader) I loved writing their friendship, I loved letting it build from two strangers who live on the same floor in some grim filing cabinet of an apartment, to two friends who look out for each other, to someone who may just be holding the most important person in the world.
These five stories had me smiling the whole way through.
I hope you enjoy reading them as much as i did writing them
Hi Friends. Below are my fic recs for the month of May. If I have tagged you, and you would prefer to not be tagged, or have your works tagged, please let me know. A big thank you to each of you for sharing your works ❤
These works are 18+, minors DNI. Please read the tags on the fics before reading. If you read a fic, please reblog and let the writer know you enjoyed.❤
Clint Flood
Home Remedies by @goodwithcheese - Clint Flood x Grace
After Hours by @jolapeno - Clint Flood x F!Reader
Dieter Bravo
I'll go this way with you by @sp00kymulderr - Dieter Bravo x f!reader
Din Djarin / The Mandalorian
Mistakes Were Made (Ch 1) by @din-cognito - Din Djarin x OFC! Tassie Caltow
you became all the things I wished for, all the things I hoped by @charnelhouse - Din Djarin x F!Reader
Ezra
Wildflowers by @sp00kymulderr - Ezra x Reader
Frankie Morales
The Hunt: Morning by @cinewhore - Frankie Morales & fem!reader
Javi Gutierrez
The Unbearable Weight of Perfection (Ch 5) (Ch 6) (Ch 7)by @wardenparker & @absurdthirst - Javi Gutierrez x female reader
Joel Miller
the rocking chair by @trulybetty - joel miller x f!reader
Kermit (SNL)
Stargazing by @maggiemayhemnj - Kermit (SNL) x Reader
Max Phillips
sugar tits by @sizzlingcloudmentality - Max Phillips x f!reader
Oberyn Martell
sun's flower by @goodwithcheese - Oberyn Martell x you
Reed Richards
finite eternities (prologue) by @sizzlingcloudmentality - Reed Richards x Sue Storm x f!reader
Crossovers
don't you know it. by @sp00kymulderr - Rancher!Javier Peña x Ranch hand!Jack ‘Whiskey’ Daniels
Cry A Little by @wyn-n-tonic - Frankie Morales x Benny Miller
boys like you by @sizzlingcloudmentality - Frankie Morales x Benny Miller
Call of Duty
Say You Won't Let Go (Ch 1) (Ch 2) (Ch 3) by @ivymarquis - John Price x F!Single Mom!Reader
A Heretic's Gospel on A03
kiss the skin that crawls (part 1) by @ilium-ilia - john price x fem!reader | the surrogate au
The Fifth Element (A03) by @the-californicationist - COD/Fallout Task Force 141/Reader Polyamory Fic
The Pitt
Clearance by @blackleatherjacketz - Michael 'Robby' Robinavitch x Female Reader
Dragon Age
i just can't stop leaving town by @fatagenda - davrin x rook (nonbinary oc, named narashan)
Curated by @schnarfer & @magpiepills, a list of Oberyn, Kermit, Silva & Multiple P-Boy fics recommended by all of you for the Hidden Treasure Fic List 2.0 - all these fics had under 200 notes at the time of posting.
Please do give the ones you love a comment or a reblog. Thank you to everyone who shared their favourite Hidden Treasure fics.
OBERYN
💫 Of death and butterflies🔏 @galway-girlatwork 📚Oberyn Martell x Original Female Character📖 one shot
💫 Move, Baby🔏 @itwasntimethatdidit40 📚Oberyn Martell x f!reader x Ellaria Sand📖 one shot
KERMIT
💫 Untitled 🔏 @letsgobarbs📚Kermit (Pedro Pascal Close Encounter 50th) x AFAB!Reader 📖 one shot
💫 Strange Arrivals🔏 @romanarose📚 Reader is an alien 📖 one shot
SILVA
💫 El Gran Varón🔏 @yopossum📚 Silva x Jake 📖 one shot
MULTIPLE P-BOYS
💫 The Senator’s secret 🔏 @baronessvonglitter 📚modern!Oberyn Martell x fem!Reader x modern! Senator!Marcus Acacius 📖 one shot
💫 The Ties That Bind🔏 @pimosworld📚Dave York x f!reader x Francisco Morales 📖 series
💫 Princess Treatment🔏 @xdaddysprincessxx 📚Dave York x Nanny!reader x Frankie Morales📖 one shot
💫 The Protector🔏 @perotovar📚dieter bravo x din djarin 📖 one shot
💫 The detective and the agent🔏 @604to647📚Detective Tim Rockford x fem!reader x Agent Marcus Pike 📖 series
💫 𝐓𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐭𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐓𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐥𝐞🔏 @gasolinerainbowpuddles 📚 Dieter Bravo x Ezra x Frankie Morales 📖 one shot
💫 Non-Standard Issue🔏 @bonezone44📚Dom!Ezra x sub!Frankie "Catfish" Morales📖 one shot
💫 Maverick 🔏 @for-a-longlongtime📚Tim Rockford x Marcus Pike and Francisco Morales 📖 series
💫 in the shadows of others, we grow🔏 @sin-djarin📚Tim Rockford x Dave York 📖 series - ongoing
💫 I can bring you in hot🔏 @ghostofaboy📚Din Djarin x Maxwell Lord📖 one shot
💫 Let's get it on 🔏 @itwasntimethatdidit40📚Lucien Flores x afab!reader x Frankie Morales📖 one shot
💫 Don’t say a word if this word is not “please”.🔏 @itwasntimethatdidit40 📚General!Marcus Acacius X slave trader!Javier Peña📖 one shot
My lil' contribution to the @jolacheese Trope Search – many thanks to @goodwithcheese and @jolapeno for the fun community shenanigans!
Pairing: Kermit (SNL) x Reader; Kermit (SNL) x You (no physical descriptions, one mention of a piece of jewelry)
Word count: about 500
Rating: T (for tame – and terrestrial) No warnings, just outright silliness and pure FLOOF.
Trope: amnesia (I may have cheated just a tad, please don't kick me out and keep my security deposit 😉)
Unbeta'd, kind of "stream of consciousness" writing happened here 😆 hope it worked.
🌟 🌟 🌟 🌟 🌟 🌟 🌟
“You didn’t freak out?”
He’d been friendly, if a little chatty. The managers of the B&B where you’d been staying for a couple days had sent him to your suite to assist with a clogged sink. His deft handiwork saved the plumbing, and your jewelry – your ill-fitted ring.
“I thought I would’ve, but no. They just had this....energy about 'em, a warm aura, if you will. Very calming.”
You had asked if his name was “Like The Frog?”, and winced immediately. He had a soft, musical laugh. He thought it was a flattering assessment – who doesn’t love the Muppets?
“But you were…taken, right? Didn’t they lock you up? Do any...tests?”
He had rescued your cherished family heirloom, and you felt compelled to do something to express your gratitude.
“No, no, none of that. In fact, they healed my old knee injury...healed all my ailments. Felt like a new man after.”
You found him just where the helpful managers of this lovely establishment said he put down stakes while the B&B was in season, not too far from the carefully manicured grounds. The near-faded sunlight gave the aluminum exterior of his pristine Bambi Airstream a faint glimmer.
“Although, at first, I had a short bout of amnesia - lasted about three days or so.”
Its awning was unfurled and posted, and Kermit was comfortably seated in a fancy camp chair, his proud nose in an Agatha Christie novel (“That Poirot, he’s a clever one, isn’t he?”). The scuffle of footsteps in kicked-up dirt made him raise his head.
“Oh, come on, now you’re just messing with me!”
His warm smile upon recognizing you grew brighter as he spied the six-pack of Hank’s Root Beer in your hand. He’d raved about it while your chat had covered a variety of subjects, and he was touched that you’d noticed. Kermit quickly scrambled and pulled over a matching chair, offering you a seat beside him.
“Not a bit! Scout’s honor.” He grinned and tipped his bottle back for another swig, and you couldn't help but notice his handsome sculpted profile, the gentle bob of his Adam's apple as he savored the beverage.
The sun long gone, the skies above were draped in a beautifully starlit canopy. A comfortable silence fell between you, with your eyes transfixed on the night sky, full of wonder.
“You gonna do some more stargazing, like you told me about while you were fishing for my ring?”
“Already am.”
Your gaze fell back to earth, meeting the warmth of his eyes, a soft, timid grin on his lips.
“The sky’s awful pretty, for sure. Not as pretty as the stars in your eyes, though.”
