Three things: 1.) All feedback and critique is welcome--I'm actually looking for a beta. 2.) I need, need, need more Piggy/Kermit romance stories--please send me any links for good ones! 3.) This fic picks up about a year after Kermit and Piggy split up, about 9 years before the new movie, and pretends that Muppets In Space never happened--sorry Gonzo fans. She Gets What She Wants She didn’t want nutmeg on her cappuccino. Why was it so hard to understand? She wanted it whole milk, extra whip, extra espresso, extra chocolate, extra sprinkles with a fudge-ripple coated straw to stir with. What she had in her hand wasn’t extra anything—and she was pretty sure it was non-fat. Miss Piggy tilted her hand, slowly pouring the frothy concoction onto the floor as she made eye-contact with the snotty coffee girl, Camille. “Oh!” she said with deliberate sweetness. “Moi seems to have spilled my coffee. Could I have another, no nutmeg, please?” Camille narrowed her eyes. Piggy narrowed hers right back. Someone in line behind her cleared their throat and then sensibly moved towards the door and any one of the thousands of other cafes in Paris that would no doubt give him the order he wanted—unlike Camille. Piggy gave an exaggerated gasp. “Oh no, have you just lost a customer? What a shame—I hope that was not due to moi?” Camille fell back on the time-honored tradition of her people and favored Piggy with the distant, aloof, and slightly disgusted smile of a professional artiste being badgered by a bourgeoisie landlord—but she did re-make the coffee. Piggy countered with the just-barely-there smirk of a Beauty Queen towards Miss Runner-Up as she casually dropped €ten on the counter and sauntered away. It took a special kind of diva to insult someone while overpaying them. Her high heels click-clacked to the sound of Camille’s grinding teeth until she reached her dressing room; there she was promptly ambushed by the fashion designer and coordinator, Alais, who leveled an unwavering clipboard at her. “Miss Piggy, what have I told you about assaulting the vendors?” she demanded in heavily accented English. Piggy gazed up at her innocently. “Moi? Assaulting? No, no, you must be mistaken.” “There is no mistake.” “It was a simple misunderstanding, Alais,” Piggy said charmingly. “I am sure it will not happen again, a-ha ha.” “I will remind you, Mademoiselle, that you are not the only plus-size pig model we have on call,” Alais said threateningly. “The only one willing to wear your outdated designs,” Piggy muttered under her breath. “What was this?” “What? Oh, I didn’t say anything,” Piggy replied. Alais gave her a hard stare that made Piggy unaccountably nervous, then with a whisper of silk, she was gone. “You should not provoke her,” came a sudden voice from behind her dressing screen. Piggy whirled, automatically assuming a martial stance before her mind recognized the voice of Suzette, her dresser and personal assistant. She relaxed and sipped her cappuccino. “Pish posh—moi is not afraid of a third rate seamstress.” “They say she can make or break modeling careers.” Piggy sniffed. “My modeling career is already made.” Ramon stuck his head into the room and gave a polite cough. “Miss Piggy, we’re ready for you.” “Oh, thank vous,” she said grandiosely. She removed her silk dressing gown to reveal an exotic zebra-print bathing suit with a surprisingly full bustle and black ruffles falling across her breasts. The effect seemed to stun poor Ramon, who watched her strut away with a shell-shocked look on his face. Piggy pretended not to notice—after all, she was working. She reached the room where the photo shoot was set up. The other models, most of them stick-thin and leagues taller than her, were congregated at one end. She sauntered over, her generous curves contrasting nicely with the sharp angles all around her. “Hello, ladies.” They turned as one and gave her a collective look of disdain. “Good evening,” one of them said airily. The ‘p’ word was muttered just low enough to not quite be audible and while they were too dignified to giggle, there was a sudden air of amusement that caused Piggy’s jaw to tighten. She was careful to appear unruffled as the photographer stepped forward and began sketching out what he had in mind. “And then the Piggy will be in the center—you understand, yes?” the man asked, half in mangled, heavily accented French. “Moi understands, you wish for the girls to frame my natural beauty,” Piggy translated. There was some more muttering, which Piggy ignored easily as they moved into place. She sat in the middle as the others arranged themselves around her. Everything seemed to be going smoothly until the individual shots began. Then, just as Piggy was stepping down from the Catwalk, Janice stepped up and said quite clearly, loud enough even for Jaime, the lighting guy to hear, “Porky.” Some things cannot be ignored, even in the name of professionalism. Piggy felt her heart begin to pound as the rage built. She forced her tone to silky sweetness. “What was that, Janice, dear?” she asked. “Oh, I’m sorry. Was I not pronouncing your name correctly? It is this word in English, no?” she asked, exaggerating her accent. “Say it again, toothpick,” Piggy challenged her in the same calm, deadly sweet voice. “But I am confused,” Janice said disingenuously. “I am not to say, Porky?” Piggy saw red—and if she had her way, Janice would see it too. “Hiy-yah!” she cried loudly, launching herself at the scantily clad woman. The next minute the catwalk became the scene of a catfight as all the models launched themselves at Piggy—who held her own easily until Alais arrived on scene with a pack of beefy-looking security people. The fight was quickly broken up, though Janice’s hair would take a while to recover from the pulling Piggy had given it, not to mention the various bruises. They were all sent to their dressing rooms, each to await their individual meetings with an incensed Alais. Half an hour later, Piggy’s door was flung open and Alais strode in. Piggy immediately opened her mouth to defend herself, but Alais held up a hand. “Non, you will listen. I will not tolerate fighting amongst my girls, however much you are provoked. But, I also cannot afford to switch models at that time, and so, I am left with a quandary. Thus, I am forced to fix you, and so, you will attend a session twice a week with Dr. Gaulle for three months. In two weeks you will return to work, compre vous?” Alais did not give her time to so much as toss her hair—not that Piggy would have been capable of it. She was too busy staring in shock at the very idea. Dr. Gualle—the celebrity shrink? Her? She was not crazy—a trifle overworked perhaps, but she didn’t need professional help. Miss Piggy pouted, then smirked. Surely there was some way out of this? After all, beautiful people were always the exceptions to the rules.