rhapsodyofdarkness

[rhapsodyofdarkness]

Once again, Berry has done it !! 💃

Girl, once again you created characters that feel so complex, organic and real. Not just the leads, but even the secondary characters are fully alive on the page. You don’t just let us see them from the outside, you pull us right into their inner worlds and conflicts and it’s such a powerful and intimate experience as a reader.

The slow-burn between them is so well developed, the tension, the buildup, every little moment between Kermit and reader just works. And when they finally give in to the fire... wow. That was HOT 🔥🔥🔥 Totally worth every teasing and step that led there.

And your take on Kermit??? ✨Amazing✨ This is canon Kermit for me now. You completely nailed him (and maybe I can see me falling a little in his rabbit's after all... 🤭)

Cream and Sugar, Baby

pairing: Kermit x f! waitress reader

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.

Now he was waiting.

For you.

thanks for reading 💌

main masterlist

tags: @speaktothehandpeasants @kungfucapslock @felix-enthusiast @bergamote-catsandbooks @kakiki3 @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @capuccinodoll @almostfoxglove @whirlwindrider29 @jolapeno @cuteanimalmama @christinamadsen @sheepdogchick3 @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @brittmb115 @greenwitchfromthewoods @diabaroxa @glycerinrivers @biapascal @copperhalfcent @beaniebailey @thepilatesprincess @axshadows @kirsteng42 @joelsgoodgirl @ellenmunn @matchalov3 @canadianfangirl-95 @picketniffler @hotforpedro @tuquoquebrute @noovaarq @warmdragonfly @theanothersherlockian @littleluc @76bookworm76 @inept-the-magnificent @confusedpuffin @wheatmaze @rav3n-pascal22 @picketniffler @lostinmyownmaze @misstokyo7love @pascalispunkczechia @pasc4lfuzz @cheekychaos28

[rhapsodyofdarkness]

Once again, Berry has done it !! 💃

Girl, once again you created characters that feel so complex, organic and real. Not just the leads, but even the secondary characters are fully alive on the page. You don’t just let us see them from the outside, you pull us right into their inner worlds and conflicts and it’s such a powerful and intimate experience as a reader.

The slow-burn between them is so well developed, the tension, the buildup, every little moment between Kermit and reader just works. And when they finally give in to the fire... wow. That was HOT 🔥🔥🔥 Totally worth every teasing and step that led there.

And your take on Kermit??? ✨Amazing✨ This is canon Kermit for me now. You completely nailed him (and maybe I can see me falling a little in his rabbit's hole after all... 🤭)

Cream and Sugar, Baby

pairing: Kermit x f! waitress reader

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.

Now he was waiting.

For you.

thanks for reading 💌

main masterlist

tags: @speaktothehandpeasants @kungfucapslock @felix-enthusiast @bergamote-catsandbooks @kakiki3 @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @capuccinodoll @almostfoxglove @whirlwindrider29 @jolapeno @cuteanimalmama @christinamadsen @sheepdogchick3 @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @brittmb115 @greenwitchfromthewoods @diabaroxa @glycerinrivers @biapascal @copperhalfcent @beaniebailey @thepilatesprincess @axshadows @kirsteng42 @joelsgoodgirl @ellenmunn @matchalov3 @canadianfangirl-95 @picketniffler @hotforpedro @tuquoquebrute @noovaarq @warmdragonfly @theanothersherlockian @littleluc @76bookworm76 @inept-the-magnificent @confusedpuffin @wheatmaze @rav3n-pascal22 @picketniffler @lostinmyownmaze @misstokyo7love @pascalispunkczechia @pasc4lfuzz @cheekychaos28

[rhapsodyofdarkness]

Under My Skin

pairing: Frankie Morales x ofc! Firefly

Final snippet before tomorrorw. You're gonna see why that's so important soon.

Set in the "Like A Song Stuck In My Head" universe. If you stumbled here by accident, catch up with the full story here.

word count: ~ 540

They were very drunk.

Not tipsy. Not flirtatiously buzzed.

No, the kind of drunk where the world spun just slow enough to feel like honey and everything was funny. Where the sidewalk bounced beneath your feet and every streetlight looked like a spotlight. Where she kissed his cheek at every red light just because she finally could.

Frankie had his arm around her, hood up, hoodie far too big because it was his and she had claimed it long ago. They were stumbling down some back street in a part of the city neither of them knew well, and of course that’s when she spotted it.

A tattoo parlor. Still open. Neon sign half-buzzing. Possibly cursed.

She gasped like it was fate. “Frankie.”

“What?”

She turned to him, eyes wide and wild. “Get a firefly.”

He blinked. “What?”

“A tattoo. Of a firefly. Right now.”

He smirked. “Baby, I’m wasted.”

“So am I, what’s your point?” She stuck her chin out, daring. “What, you scared?”

He squinted at her. “You think I’m scared of a tattoo?”

“I think you’re scared of commitment,” she teased, eyes dancing.

That did it. Frankie turned on his heel, pulled the tattoo shop door open with a dramatic flourish. “Let’s go then.”

The guy behind the counter looked at them like he’d seen this exact kind of chaos before. Maybe five minutes ago.

Firefly grinned. “Don’t worry. We tip well.”

Frankie let her draw the firefly herself—just a quick, messy sketch on a napkin. The artist cleaned it up, but the bones were still hers. He got it inked on the inside of his upper arm, high enough that only someone really close would ever see it.

And then—of course—Frankie smirked through the haze of adrenaline and whiskey and said, “Your turn.”

She raised a brow. “What?”

“You get a butterfly.”

“Why a butterfly?”

He looked at her, suddenly more serious than he’d been all night, pupils blown but voice low and steady. “Metamorphosis.”

Her breath caught. She didn’t ask him to explain.

She got it inked just under her ribcage, small and quiet, where the wings would flutter every time she breathed.

When they left the tattoo parlor, they were a mess. Tangled together in the back seat like a couple of teenagers, giggling against each other’s necks, whispering nonsense and kisses.

Firefly curled against his side, tracing the fresh tattoo through the fabric of his shirt, gentle fingertips brushing over the gauze.

“I can’t believe we did that,” she said, half-laugh, half-whisper.

He turned his head, looked at her. Really looked at her.

Hair messy. Eyes sleepy. The city lights reflecting off her skin like something ethereal, which she was for him. Expecting to wake up to this being a dream any minute.

He didn’t say anything, didn’t need to.

Neither did she, not really. Just kept touching the spot on his arm, their legs pressed together, her heartbeat loud in the hush.

The moment slowed, dipped into something soft and sacred. No laughter now, just weightless wonder that they finally found eachother again.

And neither of them knew it yet—but later, when everything had changed, this would be the night they’d remember.

thanks for reading 💌

drabbles masterlist

main masterlist

tags: (if you don't wanna be tagged anymore, let me know!) @cheekychaos28@speaktothehandpeasants @kungfucapslock @sidelit @felix-enthusiast @kakiki3 @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @capuccinodoll @whirlwindrider29 @christinamadsen @sheepdogchick3 @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @brittmb115 @greenwitchfromthewoods @diabaroxa @glycerinrivers @biapascal @copperhalfcent @beaniebailey @thepilatesprincess @axshadows @kirsteng42 @joelsgoodgirl @ellenmunn @matchalov3 @canadianfangirl-95 @picketniffler @hotforpedro @tuquoquebrute @noovaarq @warmdragonfly @theanothersherlockian @littleluc @76bookworm76 @inept-the-magnificent @confusedpuffin @wheatmaze @rav3n-pascal22 @picketniffler @lostinmyownmaze

[rhapsodyofdarkness]

I have loved their journey through these drabbles, it makes me so happy seeing them being good again after what they have gone through. I can't wait for tomorrow's finale and know what it is awating for them💜

Demo Tapes

Day thirty-one of @thedrabblecollective's challenge !! In case you missed it catch up with the AU created for this here (necessary)

Because I’m that extra, each drabble comes with its own song—featuring the word of the day in either the lyrics or the song title, listen and save here

todays prompt: Poppy

It’s over!! The very last drabble is live, and I’m honestly at a loss for words. Later today I’ll be posting one final snippet before the grand finale tomorrow. I am not okay 😭😭 Thank you—truly—to every single one of you who’s followed along this far. It means the world. Thank you for loving these two beautiful idiots as much as I do. 💔✨

They were somewhere in the middle of nowhere, killing time. A blur of red flashed past the van window—poppies, bright and wild. Frankie stared, thinking of her and her fiery hair, smiling. 

Frankie: You won’t believe what I just saw.

Firefly: Enlighten me.

Frankie: Poppies. As red as your hair.

Firefly: That’s cheesy af.

(beat)

Firefly: Actually It’s cute.

Frankie: That was only the beginning. When do I see you again?

Firefly: Thought you were busy, rockstar?

Frankie: Never too busy for you, just across the country.

Firefly: No worries, I can wait.

And something lighter bloomed in his chest—hope.

thanks for reading 💌

drabbles masterlist

main masterlist

tags: (if you don't wanna be tagged anymore, let me know!) @speaktothehandpeasants @kungfucapslock @sidelit @felix-enthusiast @kakiki3 @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @capuccinodoll @whirlwindrider29 @christinamadsen @sheepdogchick3 @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @brittmb115 @greenwitchfromthewoods @diabaroxa @glycerinrivers @biapascal @copperhalfcent @beaniebailey @thepilatesprincess @axshadows @kirsteng42 @joelsgoodgirl @ellenmunn @matchalov3 @canadianfangirl-95 @picketniffler @hotforpedro @tuquoquebrute @noovaarq @warmdragonfly @theanothersherlockian @littleluc @76bookworm76 @inept-the-magnificent @confusedpuffin @wheatmaze @rav3n-pascal22 @picketniffler @lostinmyownmaze

[rhapsodyofdarkness]

Demo Tapes

Day thirty of @thedrabblecollective's challenge !! In case you missed it catch up with the AU created for this here (necessary)

Because I’m that extra, each drabble comes with its own song—featuring the word of the day in either the lyrics or the song title, listen and save here

todays prompt: Hat

only today and tomorrow left, how are we feeling ?? 😭😭

The hat was the first thing she noticed—his unruly curls tucked beneath it like they still refused to behave. He looked different, but somehow still just him.

“Hey,” he said, almost shy.

“Hey,” she answered, stepping closer.

“What’s that about?” she asked, nodding at the cap.

“Disguise,” he shrugged. “Fame and all that…”

She grinned, one corner of her mouth tilting up. “I like it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Silence lingered between them, not heavy, just full. His eyes searched hers like he didn’t know what to say first. And for a second, neither of them moved. 

“Shall we then?” 

She nodded.

thanks for reading 💌

drabbles masterlist

main masterlist

tags: (if you don't wanna be tagged anymore, let me know!) @speaktothehandpeasants @kungfucapslock @sidelit @felix-enthusiast @kakiki3 @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @capuccinodoll @whirlwindrider29 @christinamadsen @sheepdogchick3 @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @brittmb115 @greenwitchfromthewoods @diabaroxa @glycerinrivers @biapascal @copperhalfcent @beaniebailey @thepilatesprincess @axshadows @kirsteng42 @joelsgoodgirl @ellenmunn @matchalov3 @canadianfangirl-95 @picketniffler @hotforpedro @tuquoquebrute @noovaarq @warmdragonfly @theanothersherlockian @littleluc @76bookworm76 @inept-the-magnificent @confusedpuffin @wheatmaze @rav3n-pascal22 @picketniffler @lostinmyownmaze

[rhapsodyofdarkness]

Demo Tapes

Day twenty-nine of @thedrabblecollective's challenge !! In case you missed it catch up with the AU created for this here (necessary)

Because I’m that extra, each drabble comes with its own song—featuring the word of the day in either the lyrics or the song title, listen and save here

todays prompt: Maelstrom

later today there's gonna be another snippet of them for you :)

It hit her like a wave—a maelstrom of everything—as his name lit up the screen. They’d been texting again, but never called. Heart pounding in her ears, she picked up.

“Wrong number.”

A low chuckle. “Hey, Firefly.”

“Actually—it’s Elena.”

“What?”

“My real name. It’s Elena.”

Pause.

“Well… nice to meet you, Elena.”

She smiled. Stupidly.

“Nice to meet you, Francisco.”

Then they talked. About everything. About nothing. And somewhere between the laughter and the silences that said more than words, she felt it—this wasn’t just a reconnection.

It was something real, rising from the ashes of what they once were.

thanks for reading 💌

drabbles masterlist

main masterlist

tags: (if you don't wanna be tagged anymore, let me know!) @speaktothehandpeasants @kungfucapslock @sidelit @felix-enthusiast @kakiki3 @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @capuccinodoll @whirlwindrider29 @christinamadsen @sheepdogchick3 @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @brittmb115 @greenwitchfromthewoods @diabaroxa @glycerinrivers @biapascal @copperhalfcent @beaniebailey @thepilatesprincess @axshadows @kirsteng42 @joelsgoodgirl @ellenmunn @matchalov3 @canadianfangirl-95 @picketniffler @hotforpedro @tuquoquebrute @noovaarq @warmdragonfly @theanothersherlockian @littleluc @76bookworm76 @inept-the-magnificent @confusedpuffin @wheatmaze @rav3n-pascal22 @picketniffler @lostinmyownmaze

[rhapsodyofdarkness]

“Can I say something kinda stupid?”

“You always do”

“I think I fell in love with you way before I realized it.”

“That is stupid indeed”

“Told you.”

Shut up I love them 😭😭😭💜💜💜

Comfort In Stereo

pairing: Frankie Morales x ofc! Firefly

Plays right after todays drabble, readable here. If you stumbled here by accident, please catch up with their full story here.

I love them so much and I hope you do too 🤍

word count: 560

The silence stretches but it’s warm now. Easy. Their breathing falls into rhythm, comfort in stereo. Frankie shifts on the hotel bed, phone pressed to his cheek. He doesn’t want to hang up. Not when he finally has her on the line again. Not when, somehow, she feels closer than the thousand miles between them.

Firefly. Elena. Her name is Elena.

In the quiet, he mouths it to himself like a secret. Over and over. He remembers that night at the bar—when she told him he hadn’t earned her real name.

And now he has it.

He smiles, ignoring the slow-burning glow in his chest. Then, finally, he breaks the silence.

“You still awake?”

Her voice is muffled, barely audible on the other end. “Mhm-hm. Just barely.”

His smile widens. He imagines her curled up, red hair a mess and sprawled over the pillow.

“Can I say something kinda stupid?”

Her reply is half-asleep already. “You always do,” but he can hear her smile.

He chuckles softly, then adds—quiet, hoarse, a little afraid to speak the weight that’s been building in his chest since they started texting again.

“I think I fell in love with you way before I realized it.”

She’s still. Not asleep, just stunned into silence and his heart skips a beat. Then two. Fuck.

“That is stupid indeed,” she whispers.

But Frankie can’t stop the bright smile spreading across his face. “Told you.”

She doesn’t answer right away, but he hears her inhale—slow and steady. When she finally speaks, her voice is softer now. A sound so electric and tender he wishes he could bottle it. Keep it for the quiet, empty nights. Play it back every time he forgets that good things still exist in the world.

“Don’t fall asleep before me, Morales.”

“Wouldn’t dare.”

He shifts again on the bed, phone still pressed to his cheek. It’s that strange hour—too late to be night, too early to be morning and everything feels suspended. Charged. Sacred.

After months of wondering if she’d ever speak to him again, here she is. On the other end of the line. And somehow, it feels like she never really left. He wants to hold her, just to prove she’s real. Wants to pour out every lyric he never finished, every apology he never said.

But the words feel too heavy. They swell inside him, pressing hard against his ribs.

So he reaches for the simplest, truest thing.

“I never stopped thinking about you,” he murmurs. “You were the first thing that felt real in a long time, you know?”

Silence.

For a heartbeat, he panics—thinks maybe he said too much. Maybe she’s gone again.

But then—

“Damn, rockstar,” she breathes, a little stunned. “You always knew how to say things at 2am…”

He lets out a soft, choked laugh. “That’s ‘cause that’s when I feel the truth loudest.”

There’s a pause. Delicate as glass.

“Then tell me something true now,” she whispers. Hopeful. Or maybe terrified. He can’t quite tell.

“You wanna hear something true?”

She hums.

“I’d give up the stage if it meant hearing you laugh behind that bar again.”

Another pause. This one stretches long—but it’s not empty.

It’s full of things not yet said. Of everything they might still be.

And on the other end, he hears it: her smile mirroring his own.

thanks for reading 💌

main masterlist

tags: (if you don't wanna be tagged anymore, let me know!) @speaktothehandpeasants @kungfucapslock @sidelit @felix-enthusiast @kakiki3 @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @capuccinodoll @whirlwindrider29 @christinamadsen @sheepdogchick3 @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @brittmb115 @greenwitchfromthewoods @diabaroxa @glycerinrivers @biapascal @copperhalfcent @beaniebailey @thepilatesprincess @axshadows @kirsteng42 @joelsgoodgirl @ellenmunn @matchalov3 @canadianfangirl-95 @picketniffler @hotforpedro @tuquoquebrute @noovaarq @warmdragonfly @theanothersherlockian @littleluc @76bookworm76 @inept-the-magnificent @confusedpuffin @wheatmaze @rav3n-pascal22 @picketniffler @lostinmyownmaze

[rhapsodyofdarkness]

HER song 🥹💜

Demo Tapes

Day twenty-eight of @thedrabblecollective's challenge !! In case you missed it catch up with the AU created for this here (necessary)

Because I’m that extra, each drabble comes with its own song—featuring the word of the day in either the lyrics or the song title, listen and save here

todays prompt: Mercy

notes: only three days left, and two more snippets you get before I upload the epilogue on Sunday! AHHH! Who's panicking? I am. You guys are not prepared

He didn’t know when or how, but somehow, the universe showed mercy the night Firefly joined his livestream. It could’ve been lost in the storm of hearts and comments—but his eyes found it. [lowlight.fly] His breath hitched.

He smiled, soft and almost private, then adjusted the strap on his shoulder and tuned the guitar in his lap. The crowd in the chat kept moving.

“This one’s for someone special,” he said, fingers finding the first notes of her song.

It was the truest thing he’d said in weeks.

And for the first time in a long time—he meant it.

thanks for reading 💌

drabbles masterlist

main masterlist

tags: (if you don't wanna be tagged anymore, let me know!) @speaktothehandpeasants @kungfucapslock @sidelit @felix-enthusiast @kakiki3 @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @capuccinodoll @whirlwindrider29 @christinamadsen @sheepdogchick3 @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @brittmb115 @greenwitchfromthewoods @diabaroxa @glycerinrivers @biapascal @copperhalfcent @beaniebailey @thepilatesprincess @axshadows @kirsteng42 @joelsgoodgirl @ellenmunn @matchalov3 @canadianfangirl-95 @picketniffler @hotforpedro @tuquoquebrute @noovaarq @warmdragonfly @theanothersherlockian @littleluc @76bookworm76 @inept-the-magnificent @confusedpuffin @wheatmaze @rav3n-pascal22 @picketniffler @lostinmyownmaze

[rhapsodyofdarkness]

I couldn't love this AU and these babies more 💜

Instagram

Couldn’t sleep, so naturally I got a little creative and made Instagram pages for Firefly & Frankie ✨ Let me know if the vibes feel right for them—or if you’d imagine something totally different. I’m obsessed with the little details, so I wanna hear your thoughts 🖤

Catch up their story here before it ends on Sunday :)

tags: (if you don't wanna be tagged anymore, let me know!) @speaktothehandpeasants @kungfucapslock @sidelit @felix-enthusiast @kakiki3 @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @capuccinodoll @whirlwindrider29 @christinamadsen @sheepdogchick3 @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @brittmb115 @greenwitchfromthewoods @diabaroxa @glycerinrivers @biapascal @copperhalfcent @beaniebailey @thepilatesprincess @axshadows @kirsteng42 @joelsgoodgirl @ellenmunn @matchalov3 @canadianfangirl-95 @picketniffler @hotforpedro @tuquoquebrute @noovaarq @warmdragonfly @theanothersherlockian @littleluc @76bookworm76 @inept-the-magnificent @confusedpuffin @wheatmaze @rav3n-pascal22 @picketniffler @lostinmyownmaze

[rhapsodyofdarkness]

"And Frankie Morales didn’t know how to hold real without breaking it"

😭 My heart's just broken right now too.

What a pair of stubborn ones, they both continue fighting their feelings back when the only real thing they want is to be together 😫

For The Jukebox

pairing: Frankie Morales x ofc! Firefly

Set in the "Like A Song Stuck In My Head" universe. If you stumbled here by accident, catch up with the full story here. Plays after "One Missed Beat"

word count: ~ 670

Frankie 🎸: You working tonight or should I pretend to be surprised when I “accidentally” stop by?

Firefly 🐝: It’s Thursday, Fish. You know I’m here. Try to be less obvious this time

Frankie 🎸: No promises. Might even order something other than whiskey. Big night

Firefly 🐝: Careful, that almost sounded like character growth

Frankie 🎸: Don’t jinx it. You gonna save me a seat or do I have to fight off your fans again?

Firefly 🐝: Only if you don’t play that one goddamn song again

Frankie 🎸: No guarantees. That one’s starting to mean something. Not sure what, yet 

—

The lights were dimmed to that hazy gold The Shack always wore late at night, like the place was trying to be something softer than it was. Frankie adjusted the strap of his guitar, fingers twitching with leftover nerves as he stepped to the mic for their final set.

He scanned the crowd instinctively, but he didn’t need to look long. She was there. Firefly. Perched behind the bar, arms crossed, pretending not to watch him—but he knew she was.

He smirked like he wasn’t shaking.

“This one’s for the jukebox,” he said into the mic. A few laughs scattered. Only she knew what he meant.

The first notes rolled out from his fingers like a secret. Slow, smoky, intimate. Nothing fancy—just feeling. Every chord a word he didn’t know how to say.

Stay // Don’t look at anyone else like that // Let me be better

For once, he didn’t show off. He didn’t make a joke. He just played like his whole chest was cracked open.

And when he risked a glance up, she wasn’t behind the bar anymore.

She was closer. Arms still crossed, but her eyes—God, her eyes—were softer than he’d ever seen them.

She didn’t smile, but she didn’t look away either.

The last chord rang out and faded, swallowed by the hum of the amps and the low murmur of closing time. Applause flared then fizzled, some whistles, a “hell yeah!” from Benny. Frankie stepped back from the mic, guitar still slung low, his fingers tingling from the way he’d played it—like it meant something.

Because it did.

She was still there. Closer now. No bar between them. Her arms dropped to her sides as he climbed down from the stage, that practiced swagger slipping a little the nearer he got.

“Not bad,” she said, voice low and unreadable.

Frankie chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah?”

“You looked like you meant it.” A beat. “Whatever it was.”

He shrugged, eyes scanning her face for some sign of permission. “Maybe I did.”

That softened something in her, barely—but enough. She looked down, then back at him. “You always play like that when there’s something you can’t say?”

“Only when I know she’s listening.”

Firefly’s breath caught just slightly. She covered it with a half-laugh, half-sigh. “You’re such an idiot, rockstar.”

He grinned, crooked and tired. “You like that about me.”

And when she didn’t argue, just stood there letting the moment hang between them, he thought—This could be it. This could be the one where I don’t fuck it up.

But she only stepped back, eyes flicking toward the kitchen door.

“Last call was twenty minutes ago,” she said, voice lighter now but distant. “You should get your stuff.”

And just like that, the door cracked shut again. She didn’t slam it—she never did. But he felt it all the same.

He turned, started packing up his gear with heavy hands.

And God, he wanted to kiss her—cup her face in his hands, just to feel her, to prove that whatever current sparked between them wasn’t just in his head, even if she kept him at arm’s length. He wanted to say everything. To tell her about the half-written songs in his notebook, the ones he started the very first night he saw her. Every damn one of them about her.

But he didn’t.

Because this—this felt real.

And Frankie Morales didn’t know how to hold real without breaking it.

thanks for reading 💌

drabbles masterlist

main masterlist

tags: (if you don't wanna be tagged anymore, let me know!) @speaktothehandpeasants @kungfucapslock @sidelit @felix-enthusiast @kakiki3 @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @capuccinodoll @whirlwindrider29 @christinamadsen @sheepdogchick3 @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @brittmb115 @greenwitchfromthewoods @diabaroxa @glycerinrivers @biapascal @copperhalfcent @beaniebailey @thepilatesprincess @axshadows @kirsteng42 @joelsgoodgirl @ellenmunn @matchalov3 @canadianfangirl-95 @picketniffler @hotforpedro @tuquoquebrute @noovaarq @warmdragonfly @theanothersherlockian @littleluc @76bookworm76 @inept-the-magnificent @confusedpuffin @wheatmaze @rav3n-pascal22 @picketniffler @lostinmyownmaze

[rhapsodyofdarkness]

Demo Tapes

Day twenty-seven of @thedrabblecollective's challenge !! In case you missed it catch up with the AU created for this here (necessary) and meet the protagonists here.

Because I’m that extra, each drabble comes with its own song—featuring the word of the day in either the lyrics or the song title, listen and save here

todays prompt: Transform

Only 4 days left, help 😭 also there will be a little snippet dropping later today !

The clip found her by accident—autoplay, maybe fate.

Frankie sat on a worn-out couch, voice low but steady. “Hiding it almost killed me.” Her breath caught. He looked different. Thinner maybe, but clearer somehow. Like the poison hadn’t won. “Hard. But honest.”

That was him—underneath the wreckage.

Fans flooded the comments. Hero. Brave. Real.

She didn’t type anything. Just watched in silence.

When the clip ended, she watched it again and again. She should’ve looked away. She didn’t, couldn’t.

That voice still lived under her skin, still had the power to transform a quiet room into memory, ache, and almost.

thanks for reading 💌

drabbles masterlist

main masterlist

tags: (if you don't wanna be tagged anymore, let me know!) @speaktothehandpeasants @kungfucapslock @sidelit @felix-enthusiast @kakiki3 @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @capuccinodoll @whirlwindrider29 @christinamadsen @sheepdogchick3 @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @brittmb115 @greenwitchfromthewoods @diabaroxa @glycerinrivers @biapascal @copperhalfcent @beaniebailey @thepilatesprincess @axshadows @kirsteng42 @joelsgoodgirl @ellenmunn @matchalov3 @canadianfangirl-95 @picketniffler @hotforpedro @tuquoquebrute @noovaarq @warmdragonfly @theanothersherlockian @littleluc @76bookworm76 @inept-the-magnificent @confusedpuffin @wheatmaze @rav3n-pascal22 @picketniffler @lostinmyownmaze

[rhapsodyofdarkness]

I never have enough of these two breaking my heart

Random facts ❤️‍🔥

Little-Known but deeply telling facts about our favorite tragic duo Firefly & Frankie — before I drop another snippet later today.

They’re messy. They’re magnetic. And somehow, they still haunt each other like a half-finished song. Here are a few facts that won’t make it into the main story, but tell you everything you need to know.

I would also like to remind y'all that this universe has it's own playlist so feel free to check it out here

Series masterlist

🔥 Firefly

No More Red Hair – She let the dye grew out (for a while). It wasn’t about vanity anymore—she felt too tired to be the version of herself that Frankie met. The vibrant red became a ghost she couldn’t quite resurrect.

Carries a cracked lighter in her coat pocket from her last night at The Shack. It doesn’t work anymore, but she keeps it because he handed it to her once without a word.

Only listens to music through old headphones, not speakers—says it’s too intimate to be shared with a room. Her playlists are scattered, full of angry girl rock, folk ,and pop ballads.

Started writing more poetry again but never finished most of it. One piece was about the boy who kept showing up in a rundown bar. She stopped halfway through because the ending hurt too much to imagine.

Takes night walks when she can’t sleep. She watches city windows from sidewalks and imagines the lives inside. Sometimes, she leaves poetry written on sticky notes at random bus stops, hoping someone may find the meaning in it.

Always orders two shots when she drinks alone. One for her, and one for whatever version of herself didn’t end up in this city.

🎸 Frankie

Still wears a guitar pick on a chain around his neck. It’s not even the one he plays with—it’s hers, well, used to be. She left it behind once after joking she could do his job better than him.

Keeps his voicemail inbox full on purpose. The last one from her is saved and untouched. He never plays it, but he checks to make sure it’s still there, always.

Writes in blue ink only. Says black feels too final, like anything he puts on paper might become too real.

Volunteers at music programs for kids now. Doesn’t talk about it much. Just shows up, tunes guitars, listens. A little girl once said he had sad eyes and he smiled for the first time in weeks.

His favorite guitar string snapped during a set not long after she told him not to come back. He never replaced it. Just kept the guitar in its case, untouched.

Doesn’t watch romantic movies anymore. They all remind him of her and the ending he didn’t get. Felt too much like a joke. 

He stopped getting high before shows. At first, out of spite. Then grief. Then maybe hope. He thought if he could play sober, maybe the music would sound like something she’d come back for.

drabbles masterlist

main masterlist

tags: (if you don't wanna be tagged anymore, let me know!) @speaktothehandpeasants @kungfucapslock @sidelit @felix-enthusiast @kakiki3 @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @capuccinodoll @whirlwindrider29 @christinamadsen @sheepdogchick3 @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @brittmb115 @greenwitchfromthewoods @diabaroxa @glycerinrivers @biapascal @copperhalfcent @beaniebailey @thepilatesprincess @axshadows @kirsteng42 @joelsgoodgirl @ellenmunn @matchalov3 @canadianfangirl-95 @picketniffler @hotforpedro @tuquoquebrute @noovaarq @warmdragonfly @theanothersherlockian @littleluc @76bookworm76 @inept-the-magnificent @confusedpuffin @wheatmaze @rav3n-pascal22 @picketniffler @lostinmyownmaze

[rhapsodyofdarkness]

Demo Tapes

Day twenty-six of @thedrabblecollective's challenge !! In case you missed it catch up with the AU created for this here (necessary) and meet the protagonists here.

Because I’m that extra, each drabble comes with its own song—featuring the word of the day in either the lyrics or the song title, listen and save here

todays prompt: Narrow

Finishing line friends, buckle up

It was useless. His face was plastered everywhere now—TV, billboards, ads. Absolutely everywhere.

One afternoon, while out with a girl from the writing workshop, they sat at a bus stop beneath a tour poster for Thorns of August. “I really wanna see them live. Heard they’re phenomenal. Especially the lead guitarist.”

Firefly’s eyes narrowed. “He’s something else, for sure.”

But not in the way people thought. They didn’t know how quiet he got when he was hurting. How he listened more than he spoke. How he used to stay sober just to talk to her. She knew him before pretending.

thanks for reading 💌

drabbles masterlist

main masterlist

tags: (if you don't wanna be tagged anymore, let me know!) @speaktothehandpeasants @kungfucapslock @sidelit @felix-enthusiast @kakiki3 @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @capuccinodoll @whirlwindrider29 @christinamadsen @sheepdogchick3 @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @brittmb115 @greenwitchfromthewoods @diabaroxa @glycerinrivers @biapascal @copperhalfcent @beaniebailey @thepilatesprincess @axshadows @kirsteng42 @joelsgoodgirl @ellenmunn @matchalov3 @canadianfangirl-95 @picketniffler @hotforpedro @tuquoquebrute @noovaarq @warmdragonfly @theanothersherlockian @littleluc @76bookworm76 @inept-the-magnificent @confusedpuffin @wheatmaze @rav3n-pascal22 @picketniffler @lostinmyownmaze

[rhapsodyofdarkness]

So they had no date??? NOOO 😭😭😭😫

Demo Tapes

Day twenty-five of @thedrabblecollective's challenge !! In case you missed it catch up with the AU created for this here (necessary) and meet the protagonists here.

Because I’m that extra, each drabble comes with its own song—featuring the word of the day in either the lyrics or the song title, listen and save here

todays prompt: Immense

It felt immense. Just the possibility of a real date—something she hadn’t done in ages. And with him? Even better. How could she have known it would never happen, that he’d mess up beyond repair?

The untouched movie tickets were the only reminder she had of what could’ve been. Somewhere, in some kinder multiverse, the date happened.

Maybe she saw her future mirrored in his warm eyes, so honest and beautiful without the poison.

She wanted to believe in that version of him—held on for longer than she should’ve—until the illusion slipped through her fingers like everything else she loved.

thanks for reading 💌

drabbles masterlist

main masterlist

tags: (if you don't wanna be tagged anymore, let me know!) @speaktothehandpeasants @kungfucapslock @sidelit @felix-enthusiast @kakiki3 @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @capuccinodoll @whirlwindrider29 @christinamadsen @sheepdogchick3 @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @brittmb115 @greenwitchfromthewoods @diabaroxa @glycerinrivers @biapascal @copperhalfcent @beaniebailey @thepilatesprincess @axshadows @kirsteng42 @joelsgoodgirl @ellenmunn @matchalov3 @canadianfangirl-95 @picketniffler @hotforpedro @tuquoquebrute @noovaarq @warmdragonfly @theanothersherlockian @littleluc @76bookworm76 @inept-the-magnificent @confusedpuffin @wheatmaze @rav3n-pascal22 @picketniffler @lostinmyownmaze

[rhapsodyofdarkness]

Shut up, they are so cute together, I can't wait for that date 🤩🤩🤩💜💜

Demo Tapes

Day twenty-four of @thedrabblecollective's challenge !! In case you missed it catch up with the AU created for this here (necessary) and meet the protagonists here.

Because I’m that extra, each drabble comes with its own song—featuring the word of the day in either the lyrics or the song title, listen and save here

todays prompt: Date

“So, you’re asking me out on a real date?” “Well, if you call it that, it sounds huge.” “Afraid, Fish?” She raised an eyebrow. “Of you? Always.” He chuckled—and got a playful punch to the arm. “So, what do you do for fun, Firefly—besides writing and reading?” “I like movies. Long walks...” “Alright, I can work with that. Movies it is. Can I pick, or...?” She nodded. He lingered at her car door before finally shutting it. “See you tomorrow?” he asked. “Again? Gross,” she said, grinning wide. Frankie gave a dramatic bow before disappearing into the soft, rising sun.

thanks for reading 💌

drabbles masterlist

main masterlist

tags: (if you don't wanna be tagged anymore, let me know!) @speaktothehandpeasants @kungfucapslock @sidelit @felix-enthusiast @kakiki3 @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @capuccinodoll @whirlwindrider29 @christinamadsen @sheepdogchick3 @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @brittmb115 @greenwitchfromthewoods @diabaroxa @glycerinrivers @biapascal @copperhalfcent @beaniebailey @thepilatesprincess @axshadows @kirsteng42 @joelsgoodgirl @ellenmunn @matchalov3 @canadianfangirl-95 @picketniffler @hotforpedro @tuquoquebrute @noovaarq @warmdragonfly @theanothersherlockian @littleluc @76bookworm76 @inept-the-magnificent @confusedpuffin @wheatmaze @rav3n-pascal22 @picketniffler @lostinmyownmaze

[rhapsodyofdarkness]

Frankie: can’t help it. you ever think maybe we’re just waiting for the same thing to go right?

Firefly: and what’s that?

Frankie: us.

😭😭😭😭😭 Shut up, I love them sm

We all waiting for it, Frankie, we all are

Sepia Film

pairing: Frankie Morales x ofc! Firefly

Special for the "Like A Song Stuck In My Head" universe, if you stumbled here by accident, please consider catching up with their full story here :)

word count: ~ 560

In the quiet moments, when the world stilled and the low bar light caught in the warm brown of his eyes, she felt it—that slow shift, rising like a tide beneath her ribs. It ached, full and tender, like her chest couldn’t hold the weight of what was growing for a man still wrapped in mystery.

He looked at her—through her—with a kind of wonder no one else ever had. And instead of fear, she felt curiosity. Hope. She wanted to believe in the version of him that bloomed beneath the bravado and the haze. The version that softened in her presence.

Francisco without the powder was different. A quiet man with broad shoulders, calloused hands, and a smile so disarming it left her legs unsteady behind the bar. When he laughed—really laughed—and his eyes crinkled at the corners, her mouth betrayed her every time, lifting in return. He’d catch her smiling, and look at her like she was something rare. Like maybe she was real magic.

It was soft, and it was monumental. So she held onto it, even if she should've known better.

Nights like that, she’d go home and write poems about his eyes. About the warmth buried in them. About how she could feel herself wanting to unravel—yet still holding fast to her defenses.

his eyes are not brown, they are sepia film stills,

burnt sugar and smoke, soft where he thinks he’s sharp.

i look too long and forget my name—

he laughs, and i believe in things i shouldn’t.

She exhaled and set the pen down. Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. 1:47 AM. Only one person texted her at this hour, she checked it still.

Frankie: u still up?

Firefly: depends. is this gonna be one of your “i’m bored and pretending to be deep” texts?

Frankie: nah. thinking about earlier. the way you looked at me

Firefly: i looked at you like i wanted to throw a drink in your face

Frankie: sure. but underneath that. you looked at me like i was someone. not just some mess on a stage

Firefly: … don’t go getting all sentimental on me now, fish boy

Frankie: can’t help it. you ever think maybe we’re just waiting for the same thing to go right?

Firefly: and what’s that?

Frankie: us.

She stared at the screen too long, the truth blooming behind her ribs like heat. This stupid, contradictory thing between them didn’t care about the circumstances—or the plain, brutal fact that it shouldn’t be happening. That he shouldn’t get to affect her like this. He was just another broken man chasing fame, and The Shack was just a stopover, the way it had been for her all those years ago.

And still, she soaked in it. The way he started showing up sober more often. The way his dumb jokes actually made her laugh.

Maybe, she thought, he was worth the risk. Because even cracked glass lets in some light. They were both broken in their own ways. But she was still holding the line. Always keeping him at arm’s length. At least on the outside. She couldn’t afford to trip.

Firefly: go to sleep, rockstar

Frankie: only if i get to dream about you

Firefly tossed the phone under her pillow and turned out the light. Still smiling like an idiot in the dark and let herself hope, if only for this fleeting moment. 

thanks for reading 💌

drabbles masterlist

main masterlist

tags: (if you don't wanna be tagged anymore, let me know!) @speaktothehandpeasants @kungfucapslock @sidelit @felix-enthusiast @kakiki3 @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @capuccinodoll @whirlwindrider29 @christinamadsen @sheepdogchick3 @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @brittmb115 @greenwitchfromthewoods @diabaroxa @glycerinrivers @biapascal @copperhalfcent @beaniebailey @thepilatesprincess @axshadows @kirsteng42 @joelsgoodgirl @ellenmunn @matchalov3 @canadianfangirl-95 @picketniffler @hotforpedro @tuquoquebrute @noovaarq @warmdragonfly @theanothersherlockian @littleluc @76bookworm76 @inept-the-magnificent @confusedpuffin @wheatmaze @rav3n-pascal22 @picketniffler @lostinmyownmaze

[rhapsodyofdarkness]

Demo Tapes

Day twenty-three of @thedrabblecollective's challenge !! In case you missed it catch up with the AU created for this here (necessary) and meet the protagonists here.

Because I’m that extra, each drabble comes with its own song—featuring the word of the day in either the lyrics or the song title, listen and save here

todays prompt: Workshop

extra sweet treat later today 😇

Firefly volunteered at the local writing workshop every Saturday. It didn’t pay much, but it helped—and let her share her own love for words.

“God, he’s so cute,” one girl gushed nearby. “I bet that song’s about a woman.”

They were huddled over Frankie’s photo. Firefly glanced at the screen, then muttered, “He’s an asshole, you know.”

The girl’s eyes widened.

“And a cokehead,” she added, her voice sharper than she meant.

Silence fell. Just like that, she shattered their illusion.

Too bad hers had been ruined long ago—slowly, painfully.

She turned back to her students. “Let’s keep writing, yeah?”

thanks for reading 💌

drabbles masterlist

main masterlist

tags: (if you don't wanna be tagged anymore, let me know!) @speaktothehandpeasants @kungfucapslock @sidelit @felix-enthusiast @kakiki3 @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @capuccinodoll @whirlwindrider29 @christinamadsen @sheepdogchick3 @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @brittmb115 @greenwitchfromthewoods @diabaroxa @glycerinrivers @biapascal @copperhalfcent @beaniebailey @thepilatesprincess @axshadows @kirsteng42 @joelsgoodgirl @ellenmunn @matchalov3 @canadianfangirl-95 @picketniffler @hotforpedro @tuquoquebrute @noovaarq @warmdragonfly @theanothersherlockian @littleluc @76bookworm76 @inept-the-magnificent @confusedpuffin @wheatmaze @rav3n-pascal22 @picketniffler @lostinmyownmaze