//------------------------------//
// Chapter Four 
// Story: The Muffin 
// by DismantledAccount 
//------------------------------//

“Son? Baked Bread? Are you all right?”

Baked Bread groaned and open his eyes; his father’s worn face glared down at him with a slight frown. 

Known simply as The Bakenator, his father was built like a wagon: he was taller than anypony in town, including Big Mac, and able to beat dough into submission just by looking at it. Back in his day, mares literally swarmed around him and begged to squeeze his rock hard muscles. He had been able to keep most of his impressive physique through the years and still cast a formidable shadow wherever he walked. Almost an exact replica of his son looks-wise, he had a dark brown coat, a sandy colored mane with streaks of grey through it, a slightly wrinkled face, and tired blue eyes; though the shades of the various features weren’t the absolute same, one could easily tell they were related.

“What are you doing in my house?” he asked, massaging his forehead with a hoof

”Your house?” his father laughed, “Don’t you remember where you are?”

Looking around, he saw the familiar insides of the muffin store. “Right.”

“So anyways, I was just stopping by to see how you were doing, but I found you asleep on the job!” He shook his head. “Care to explain?”

Baked Bread willed his brain into some quick thinking. “I was working,” he said.

“On . . . ?” his father prompted.

“The . . . the . . . the floor!” said Baked Bread, noticing that the table and chairs were still propped up against the wall.

“The floor.” His father’s frown deepened. “What about the floor. It looks the same to me.”

“I . . . well . . .” The unfortunate stallion crumbled under his father’s piercing gaze. “I didn’t really work on the floor,” he sighed. 

“That’s what I thought; don’t ever try to lie to me,” rumbled the much larger stallion. “So what actually happened? And why is your record player sitting on the counter?”

“I brought it in so I could ask this mare to dance with me,” sighed Baked Bread, deciding that lying wasn’t worth it.

“Really? Mister ‘I’m waiting to find the perfect mare’ decided to get a fillyfriend?” He chuckled. “Did you get laid yet?”

“Dad!”

“Did you?” he chuckled, his eyes twinkling.

“No!” protested Baked Bread, climbing to his hooves.

“Good.” The Bakenator’s eyes hardened and his voice lost its jovial tone. “I don’t care who she is. Treat her right or I will break you. No son of mine will be anything but a perfect gentlestallion to any mare.” He leaned in intimidatingly and roughly poked Baked Bread in the chest with his hoof. “Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir,” he replied, gulping nervously. This was a side of his father that he hadn’t seen before.

His father’s eyes bored into his. “I need to hear you say it.”

Baked Bread nodded and thought quickly. “I . . . I will do my best to always treat her with respect, honor, courtesy, and adoration,” he said with determination.

“And . . .” said his father.

“Uhhhhh . . .” And what? he thought.

“And no . . .” urged The Bakenator.

“. . . Really, Dad?”

“Say it!” he growled.

“And no sex before marriage,” he recited reluctantly.

His father smacked him not too gently on the side of the head, causing him to stumble. “Like you mean it!”

“No sex before marriage!” he shouted, snapping to attention. “Sir!”

The Bakenator placed his massive forelegs on either side of his son’s face and stared into his eyes. He slowly nodded and began to smile. “Do me proud, son.”

“Yes, Dad,” he said, not quite expecting to have had his morning go this way.

“So who’s the lucky mare?” The Bakenator pulled his hooves away from his son’s face and backed up to a more comfortable distance.

“I don’t know.”

“Excuse me?” 

“I don’t actually know her name yet. She’s only been here three times, and it never seems to come up,” he said, rubbing the back of his head awkwardly.

“Hm,” his father grunted.

“Yup.”

“So anyways, how’s things with the shop? I know I’m retired, but you can tell me how everything’s going, right?” said The Bakenator, instantly changing the subject. He was good at that; when The Bakenator changed the subject, nopony argued.

“Good.” Please don’t look at The Muffin. Please don’t look at The Muffin. Please don’t look at The Muffin. Please don’t look at The Muffin. Please don’t look at The Muffin. Please don’t look at The Muffin.

The Bakenator looked at The Muffin. He lifted up the cover with his foreleg. “Hey! Somepony finally bought this thing! Or at least part of it. What are you going to do with the extra bits?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “It looks like you got about . . . two hundred or so.”

“About that . . .” 

“What about it? I know that forty bits per serving is a bit much, but I put a lot of work and some pretty expensive materials into it.” He lovingly stroked the clear case as he spoke.

“You see—”

“How did you measure the servings? It’s forty bits for a four inch cube, so a ruler mayb—”

“I gave it away!” he shouted, interrupting his father.

“What?” The Bakenator’s head mechanically swiveled around to point at his son.

“I didn’t charge forty bits per serving. I didn’t charge anything at all. I gave it away for free.”

“To whom,” his father stated, walking closer to him.

“The same mare that I danced with last night,” Baked Bread said, holding his ground.

“The same mare that is currently nameless,” his father deadpanned.

Baked Bread nodded.

“So let me get this straight. You don’t know her name, you have given her approximately two hundred bits worth of food, and you danced with her?” his father asked.

“Well, yes,” he replied.

“Do you know anything about her?” his father asked.

A lost expression graced his face as he thought about the mare. “Well, she’s cute . . . a bit silly . . . endearingly clumsy . . . shy . . . needy, but in a good way . . . soft when I hold her . . . feisty when I don’t . . . she just perfect and amazing and—” Baked broke off as he noticed his father no longer standing in front of him. 

“You’re too far gone for reason. I know because I was the same way with your mother,” said his father, reaching the door. “Just keep what I said in mind, and do your best.”

“So . . . you’re not mad?” Baked asked.

“Why would I be mad?” The Bakenator replied, putting his hoof on the door handle.

“You know, because of The Muffin,” said the stallion, gesturing to the case.

“Son, I ran through a brick wall for your mother, nearly died while jumping out of a three story window, and broke my leg doing . . . well, I won’t give you any ideas. All of that because I was completely infatuated with her. And you know what?” He paused.

Baked thought that it was a rhetorical question. The was a short pause before he replied, “What?”

“None of that impressed her in the slightest.” 

“Soooo . . . you’re telling me this why?” asked Baked Bread. “I mean it’s interesting and all but—”

“I’m just saying you’re on the right track. Gifts and dancing will get you a better mare ten times faster than flexing your muscles. All muscles get you is one night stands; romantic is the way to go to get a life partner. Fortunately, I figured that out before your mother married some other guy,” said The Bakenator, yanking the door open.

“Eeeep!” squeaked the grey mare with the golden mane, falling face first onto the floor at The Bakenator’s hooves. 

“Hello, little lady,” rumbled the massive stallion, offering her his hoof.

“Oh, sorry, did I interrupt something?” she asked tentatively, taking his hoof and regaining her footing.

“Not at all, I was just leaving,” said The Bakenator. “Remember what I said,” he stated, staring at his son with a blazing intensity.

Baked Bread nodded as his father walked out of the building and closed the door behind him.

“. . . Who was that?” asked the mare in amazement, “He’s huge.”

“That’s my father,” said the stallion, finally breathing easily for the first time since he had woken up.

“Wow,” gasped the mare.

“Yeah, wait a second. . . .” The stallion looked at the light streaming in through the old windows of the shop. “What time is it?”

“Nine, I think?” she replied, scratching her ear and yawning cutely.

“How are you off of work already? Yesterday you didn’t even have time for lunch!” he exclaimed.

“Oh.” She giggled a bit before responding. “I forgot that today’s Sunday.”

“The post doesn’t deliver on Sunday,” he stated.

“Nope!” she replied happily.

“That’s nice,” he said, returning her smile. “So what are your plans for today?”

“It all depends on the answer to a question,” she said, walking closer to him.

“And what question would that be?” he asked as she closed the distance.

“Did you mean what you said?” she asked, beginning to blush.

“When?” he said, immediately trying to remember any lies he might have told.

“Just now. You told your dad that I was amazing. Did you mean it?” she asked, staring intently at him.

“. . . You were eavesdropping?” he asked, also beginning to blush. “How much did you hear?”

“My question first,” she said, closing the distance between their faces until mere inches separated them.

“Yes, I think you’re amazing,” said the stallion, completely incapable of lying to her, “beautiful, funny, cute, and adorable, and I want to get to know you better.”

“I wouldn’t mind seeing a bit more of you either,” she giggled. “I’ve enjoyed spending time with you so far.”

The mare smiled up at the stallion; the stallion smiled down at the mare.

As if receiving an unspoken signal, both the stallion and the mare tilted their heads to the right and slowly, hesitantly leaned in. Their lips connected in pure bliss and their eyes closed. Being their first real kiss with any pony, each pony was completely inexperienced. But the tender passion that they expressed for each other through that simple, age-old action could have melted the coldest of ice.

They wrapped their forelegs around each other, and the mare softly sighed. She relaxed and let herself melt into the embrace of the stallion, her stallion. She let him completely support her weight, and it was okay. She somehow knew everything would be okay. Everything that had seemed important no longer mattered. She was with her stallion. She could feel it. And it felt right. The way her body fit perfectly with his, his gentle strength, and his lips pressing against her own felt like nothing she would ever be able to describe.

The stallion held her aloft with a firm—but tender—embrace as he kissed her. She was so soft, yet so fragile. Her felt as though if he pushed her away, she would shatter into a million pieces. So he held on, reveling in the feeling of her warmth in his forelegs. He slowly caressed her, eliciting small squeaks and quiet giggles, muffled by their kiss. This was his mare. He would do anything for her.

They slowly parted, their breathing slightly heavier than when they had started.

They open their eyes slowly and saw each other in a new light.

“I’m Baked Bread,” he said, his chest rumbling against her’s. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Hi, Baked Bread,” she whispered, her breath grazing his muzzle. “I’m Ditzy Doo.”

“So, Ditzy, does that answer your question?” Baked asked cheekily.

“Yes it does, Baked,” she answered.

“What are your plans for the day then?” he asked, brushing her mane out of her eyes.

“Could I maybe, spend the day with you?” she asked with a hopeful smile.

“Could you? I can’t think of anything I would rather do,” he answered truthfully.

Ditzy smiled as Baked led her out of the store. He locked the door behind him and walked next to her, their coats gently brushing with each step.

“So where would my fillyfriend like to go on this fine day?” Baked asked, blinking in sunlight.

“Let’s just walk for a bit,” sighed Ditzy, resting her head on her coltfriend’s shoulder and draping her wing over him.


The End