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The Second Kind: Kermit (snl) x F!reader
A/N: I'm going to start by blaming @oonajaeadira for this one. I bounced head cannons at her and she provided encouragement. We had a good laugh and then I was like fuck it I'm writing the fic. Reader is back where she grew up for an annual family reunion. This is pure silliness that got surprisingly emotional. Woody Harrelson's character is named Scooter. This is the silliest thing I've ever written and I had a fucking blast. Also a FLIR is a type of thermal imagine camera that used by UFO people and ghost hunters.
Warnings: Ugly family dynamics. Politics. One use of "Libtard" (not from Kerm or Scoots). A whole UFO sighting and the terror that implies. Anxiety. A bit of panic. Alcohol consumption.
You knew things would turn ugly. But you still showed up. For your younger cousins if nothing else. The family reunion has felt less like a fun occasion and more like an obligation lately. Doesn’t help that your grandparents and uncles have let Tucker Carlson and Fox News and Twitter hollow them out from the inside.
Everybody’s been cordial so far, but now the sun is down and the fire is bright and the beer is flowing and Uncle Mike starts his usual spiel about how those dirty foreigners are taking jobs from good hard working Americans. You feel your neck start to stiffen, your jaw start to tighten up, knowing that Mike’s got enough liquid courage on board to recite a sermon’s worth of Project 2025 talking points with a heaping helping of Qanon horseshit. Your Aunt Jennie downs her beer in a series of convulsive swallows and grabs another, you can see the vein pulsing at her temple even in the flickering fire’s glow, just waiting for Mike to pause for breath so she can go off. You know what’s going to happen, what’s happened at every reunion since 2016, MAGAts vs Libtards, everyone buzzed and yelling, and then tomorrow everyone will wake up sore from sleeping on the ground, eat breakfast and play softball in the big open field behind the row of tents, and act like nothing happened.
Christ, you’re tired of it. You grab a beer from the cooler and wander out into the field that borders the campsite. You’ll all play softball tomorrow, even though you’re dogshit at it, pick a place in the outfield and hope nothing comes your way. But for now the darkness is inviting and wide, but you’re not alone in it. Two men hunker over their phones, red light reflected up into their faces.
