Kermie's Girl (ushy-gushy fanfic)

The Count · Sep 30, 2011

Heh, you should read newsmanfan's Newsie's Stories. And there's RedPiggy's crossover Henson-verse fics. But I agree that it's good to get an update from one of the mainstays of our fanfic community.

Gonna re-read the chapter, it's a nice conversation between The Frogs. Hope they get their rest... They're going to need it since I suspect something like what happened back in Chapter 7 when the Daily Scandal runs that special issue with the pickpocketed pics.
Also—given Scooter's comment about some fans ability to pixelate the letters Kermit and Piggy were sitting on top of to know if it was their own letter—I wonder if Marty would be able to recognize the pics as to which ones were the ones taken and who took them, cementing Kermit's claims against Claude. Or am I reading too deeply into this fantastic fic?

At any rate, thanks and we hope for more when possible.

newsmanfan · Oct 3, 2011

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Goodness. What a touching moment you've captured perfectly! Sweet without being saccharine, sibling rivalry-esque without stereotype! Well done! :smile:

I wasn't aware blushing raised the ambient temperature. Hmm...I'll have to test that on a cold night...Newsie blushes SO easily... *recalculating heating cost estimates for January*

And your line about Kermit holding that image of his sleeping wife in his memory "months later" is rather ominous. What will threaten the unsinkable Piggy the Frog? Ooh! Foreshadowing!! Love it!

( and Hey Ed...thanks for the compliment! :news:

)

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ReneeLouvier · Oct 8, 2011

gosh, finally got caught up here. Can't wait to read more of this lovely fanfic. Gotta say I adore the parts with Scooter and Sara the most honestly.

Please, more Ru when you can!

Ruahnna · Oct 8, 2011

Chapter 93: Confidentially Yours
“Mee mee meep meh mee!” Beaker said importantly. Bunsen watched with interest as his tall, tube-headed partner poured a smoking liquid from one glass jar into a slender beaker that already contained a viscous, purple fluid. Immediately, the potion began to foam and bubble.
“And you say this will lift fingerprints off any incriminating evidence?” Bunsen said, peering myopically as Beaker poured some of the mixture onto a nearby newspaper. “Kermit could probably make use of that!”
Ominously, the newspaper began to smoke, then burst into flame.
“Mee meee meh,” Beaker said, and nodded once to emphasize his point.
“Oh—oh my!” said Bunsen, then hid his smile with one broad hand. “I didn’t hear you correctly the first time, Beakie. You meant it will remove the fingerprints—from the fingers.” His expression, though admiring, was thoughtful. “I’m not sure Kermit will feel the same way,” Bunsen said regretfully. “But Dr. Van Neuter said just the other day that he was looking for something of the sort….”

“Hey Scooter, my man’s man,” Clifford hailed Scooter as he got out of his car. Scooter grinned and waved awkwardly with his elbow, trying to pull out his door key while he wrestled with the groceries.
“Hi Clifford—glad you could come.”
Clifford laughed his deep, rumbly laugh. “Like I had a choice. First you say we’re eating. Then you say it’s for the Green man.”
“I knew one would get you if the other one didn’t,” Scooter admitted, grinning up at his dread-locked friend, but they both knew it was a lie. The food was a definite draw, but Clifford would have come anyway. “Who else is coming—do you know?”
“Well, Rizzo was supposed to ride with me but then he phoned and said he was gonna hitch with Gonzo. Floyd and Janice are bringing the van. Laura May is teaching a dance routine to her niece’s drill team, but she’s coming over after with Sally Ann. Teeth is coming about now, I think.”
“He’s already here. Sara said he’s helping with the sauce.”
“I suppose you mean pasta sauce,” Clifford said resignedly.
Scooter grinned and handed over one of the two brown-paper grocery sacks he carried. It clinked reassuringly and Clifford peered inside and laughed.
“Co-habitation has been good for you, my man,” the bass player opined.
Scooter blushed a little but did not avert his gaze. “You should try it,” Scooter said pointedly, and it was Clifford’s turn to flush.
“Yeah, well, the love of my life won’t leave Vegas,” Clifford mumbled.
Scooter snorted. “What—that showgirl?”
“Naw, man—Mabel! Now there’s a woman for you!” He sighed dramatically, then broke into a wide smile. “Did I tell you she’s on the boards at MC?”
Scooter turned and stared at him. “At MC? For real?”
“For true,” Clifford said. “I was reading this post—doing rumor patrol, you know?—and nodding and smiling and thinking how darn sensible this chick sounded, and then I looked at her member name and I knew it was Mabel.”
Scooter’s eyes were wide behind his glasses. “What is her member name?”
“Hot Tamole,” Clifford said, and they both burst out laughing.

Kermit poked his head out of the master bathroom, his mouth foamy with toothpaste. “I don’t know, Piggy. Wouldn’t you feel better if I had Scooter find you someplace so you can just move in door to door? Without having to unpack at the hotel first?”
Piggy snorted, wiping delicately at the cold cream on her face with a cotton ball. “Like Scooter doesn’t have enough to do right now,” she muttered. “The hotel will be fine, Kermit. It’s a four-star hotel. It’s not like I’m going to be sleeping on a park bench for a week. And it’s in my contract. Marty made sure. The first week I’m roughing it with room service and a concierge. After that, I’ll find some place.” Her face now smooth and moisturized, she un-scunchi’d her hair and reached for her own toothbrush.
“Yeah, but, Piggy—finding an apartment takes time. You’re going to be covered up with rehearsal and everything. How are you going to find a decent place with a good doorman?” Kermit handed over the toothpaste automatically, moving away from the sink to give her room.
Ah. Piggy’s frustration fled. She suddenly understood why Kermit was being such an annoying, hovering mother hen. He was worried about security—worried about her finding a place where her privacy and her life wouldn’t be overrun with paparazzi and worse. She was quiet for a moment, thinking furiously. “Okay,” she said at last. “How about this. I’ll call my friend who’s a real estate agent—remember? She’ll know someone licensed in New York, someone who will help me find a place. And they have to keep everything confidential if I ask—it’s an agent thing.” She looked at Kermit, her blue eyes dark with concern. “So all Moi has to do is tell her what I want, wait for her to find it and then call “Two Muppets and a Truck” to come move me. Does that meet with your approval?” Her voice was teasing but Kermit saw the concern in her eyes. Drat it, he thought. He put his hands on his hips and made a scrunchy face.
“Would you quit that?” he said irritably.
Piggy spit. “Quit what?” she demanded.
“Would you quit worrying about me. I’m trying to worry about you.”
“Well stop worrying about Moi,” she huffed. “Worry about your own self. How on earth are you going to get along here without me?”
She was teasing him, but that struck a sore point with such accuracy that Kermit felt it like a physical blow. He said the first thing that came to mind.
“I don’t know,” Kermit admitted. In a nanosecond, Piggy’s toothbrush dropped into the sink and her arms were around him.
“Moi is not going,” she insisted, kissing him fervently. Kermit returned her kisses, arguing just as earnestly.
“Are too!” he insisted, kissing her back. “I just meant, you know—mmm, um, wow, Piggy, um, who is going to cook for me?”
“I’m staying right—cook for you?”
“Yeah,” Kermit murmured, not yet fazed by the fact that she’d stopped kissing him. He was still kissing happily away. “And do the housekeeping.”
“The housekeeping?” Piggy huffed. “You’re worried about who’s going to do the housekeeping?”
“And make sure the dry-cleaning is—wah!”
With great attention to detail, Piggy reminded Kermit in no uncertain terms of what it was that he was soon going to have to do without.
Kermit simply counted himself lucky that he wasn’t having to do without—yet.

“Did you make this cole slaw?” Clifford demanded.
Sara gulped. “Um, yes?” she said. “I used my grandmother’s recipe. Is it—is it okay?’
“Okay? Okay?! It would make your tongue slap your lips. Scooter is a lucky guy!”
Since Sara happened to be standing just behind Scooter at that exact moment, she bent and pressed a kiss on the nape of his neck, making him flush as red as his hair.
“I’m lucky, too,” Sara said.
“I’m feel lucky to have been invited to dinner,” said Floyd, his little dark eyes twinkling mischievously. “The cupboard’s a little bare, with payday coming up.”
Floyd probably had no idea where his last check had gone, but it had been a long time since he had really been sweating the last days until payday. Still, Floyd liked the “starving musician” shtick, and—like most musicians—never liked an audience to go to waste.”
Sara trumped him, though, with a wink to Janice. “Maybe you should do the grocery shopping, Floyd,” she asked, batting her eyes innocently. Janice giggled and Floyd laughed his raspy laugh.
“It has been a while since I bought the loaf and the jug,” he admitted, and Janice said “Awwww” and kissed him on his cheek just behind one bushy sideburn.
“Maybe the weekend,” she suggested, and held his hand.
“Speaking of,” said Rizzo. “What the next thing up?”
Scooter looked down at his notes. “There’s some sort of t-shirt contest going on,” he said. “I don’t think there’s anything for us to do there. But someone’s doing a scene-by-scene review of A Muppet Family Christmas this weekend. Anybody want to keep an eye on that? Someone’s bound to make something of that mink Kermit got her.”
“Hi would like to make something of that mink,” said Pepe. “She is sophisticated, si?”
“Would you keep your mind on what we’re trying to do here?” Rizzo snapped.
“Si, si—we are h’keeping good relations with the fan base, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Then Hi will do it,” Pepe said. “Hi would like to see these tiny Fraggles,” the king prawn said. Gonzo started to say something, but Rizzo gave him a fierce look and the little blue weirdo subsided.
“I think that’s about it. They’re still worrying over those fight photos, but that’s just beating a dead horse.”
“That’s not very nice,” Beauregard said, looking offended. “What’d that horse ever do to them?”
“No, it’s just as expression, Beau,” Scooter explained hurriedly. “No one is hitting anyone.”
“Well, thank goodness for that,” the janitor responded, then smiled sweetly.
“And they’re still trying to figure out where Piggy’s filming every day.”
“Just two days to go,” said Dr. Teeth philosophically. “Just two days until that’s done and five days until she’s gone.”
“And everybody wants to know how she’s getting to New York. One of the fans is a steward for the airlines and he says that all the big airlines are playing mum.”
“How do you play mum?” Beauregard asked. “Can anyone play?”
“Well, that’s because all of the major airlines think they’re the one she’s using,” Scooter said quietly. “I had to triple book her ticket just to keep the bloodhounds off the scent.”
“And they’re all being quiet because they assume Miss Piggy’s going to use them?” asked Gonzo. “Boy, are they going to be mad.”
“Maybe,” said Scooter. “We’re going to try to make it sound like a last-minute change, but I know who we’re going to use.” He grimaced. “If nothing goes wrong.”
“What could go—?” But the furry blue whatever was destined not to complete the sentence. Several hands clamped over his mouth, his schnoz and his person.
“Don’t!” Rizzo hissed. “Don’t ever say piece of cake in the labyrinth!”
“Why would you say piece of—“
“Beauregard!” several voices shouted. “Just drop it, please!” The puzzled janitor looked around in confusion. He wasn’t holding anything.
“What do you want me to drop?” he asked, but no one was listening.
“And everybody send Mabel a hey-howdy!” Clifford said. “I started a conversation with her that you can join—but remember, nothing confidential, even there.”
Around the table, heads nodded grimly. They knew.
“So, more pasta? Or vino?” Sara asked. She was wearing a cute apron that said, “Bow to the Hostess.”
“Both,” said Clifford. “And is there any more of that pineapple upside-down cake?”

The view from up the tree was fantastic—precarious, but fantastic. Scribbler held on for dear life to his camera and used his skinny shins to grip the branch. The pre-dawn air held a hint of morning fog and car exhaust, but he could hone in on what he needed with startling accuracy with the lens attachment he’d brought. It would be hours until Marty’s little gang arrived to secure the scene, but it wouldn’t matter. He was already here. And today, he was going to get what he came for.
The pictures he’d procured the other day—by hook and by crook—had made him a popular guy with his boss, but approval was only as good as your latest by-line. Those pictures—merciful heavens, what a body!—had sold the papers. He hoped people had read his article, but he was realistic. It had not really been that much of an article, to be honest—not that he’d have let on to the boss. It had mostly been fluff and innuendo and hints that Piggy was having to defend her status on every front with…that frog.
Many had said that her rise to superstardom had been as much his success as hers, but Scribbler had never believed that—never! Before that stupid frog had wised up and realized what was his for the taking—what had been his—HIS—by right before that slimy, trick-pulling—arghh!—she had belonged to him in a way that she could never, would never belong to him. Kermit may have known her as the diva she was now, but he had known her before, when she would sit with him for hours at a time and pour out her hopes and dreams to him. He wondered if she ever thought of him now, ever remembered, ever wondered what would have happened if--
Scribbler’s lips pulled back from his teeth in something that might have been a grimace. Stupid amphibian. Did he even know what he had? Did he really appreciate her in all her glory? An image ran rampant across Scribbler’s mind’s eye and the tabloid reporter blushed furiously. A lot of her glory, um, had been on display in those pictures, and he was trying hard not to count the days until the calendar hit the street. Yup—he was gonna have to get him one of those. He shifted uncomfortably and checked his camera almost as a reflex. If things went as planned, he might not even need to buy a calendar. If things went as planned, he might get more than his 15 seconds of fame—he might get 15 seconds alone with Piggy! And, depending on the outcome, that might last him for a long, long time.

“Look, Jocquim, I understand it’s asking a lot. Everyone is trying to find out. I understand you could lose your job if you tell, but I’ve got a very serious contract issue to resolve and if you can’t see your way clear to passing along a little friendly information on a mutual client, well—“
There was a pause, and something that sounded like pleading was coming out of the phone. Seymour Strathers was unmoved. He scented blood in the water and moved in on it.
“No, no—truly, I understand all about confidentiality. After all, I work with big names all the time. In fact, I’m going to be in New York soon, and I’m sure I can find another five-star hotel to stay in when I come to—you can?” He swallowed, his throat suddenly like sandpaper. “Give it to me,” he whispered.
Jocquim muttered and Seymour scribbled down what he said. The casino owner hung up on Jocquim in mid-plea to keep this information completely, totally confidential….

Excerpt from a conversation at Muppet Central: