one-shot;
A Love Story [From the Point of View of a Blueberry Muffin]
Author: Jordan [ Insane-pyro-grl Archive]
Rating: PG-13 for sexual references
Warnings: CRACK!Fic, weird concepts, general hilariousness.
Disclaimer: Don't know, don't own, didn't happen.
POV: 1st, Muffin's.
Word Count: 1,554
Summary: The story of the love between two people, from the perspective of a blueberry muffin sitting on the kitchen counter. It only takes less time for them to fall in love than it takes for the muffin to go stale.
Author's Note: This came to me when I was talking about pancakes. It's a little different than my usual style of writing, but both my friends and I enjoy it. I hope you love it as much as they have!
A Love Story [From the Point of View of a Blueberry Muffin]
Oh, hello there! I’m Duncan Hines-Wild Maine Blueberry Muffin, but you can call me Blue for short, if you’d like. You may be asking yourself right now, ‘a talking muffin? What the fuck was in that mix?’ but I assure you, you’re perfectly normal.
No, please, don’t throw me out, look, I’m still delicious! Wait, no, don’t eat me yet, don’t you at least want to hear what I have to say first? No? You’re just hungry? I’ll give you a stomachache if you’re not more careful. Now, go grab a glass of milk, sit down, and I’ll tell you a story while you chow down on my brother over there.
Okay, so now that you’re settled with a glass of milk and my brother already half-eaten, are you ready to hear my story? I’ll take that nod and the mumbling as crumbs tumble out of your mouth as a yes.
It started about a week ago, when I was freshly baked, warm, and at the peak of my deliciousness. Wait, no, my story isn’t over, don’t eat me yet, you fiend! Anyway, I was still sitting in the tin, waiting to cool when I first noticed it: love.
The two of them were covered in the muffin mix, their fingers that specific indigo color which were obviously steeped in blueberries, and they wore flowery aprons that had done nothing to keep the mess off of their clothes. As my ears were muffled by the tin, I couldn’t hear much, but I could tell they were laughing as hard as they possibly could, just by the way they were holding their bellies, their heads thrown back, mouths wide open, yet smiling at the same time. They held onto one another’s shoulders to keep from falling on the floor.
And that’s when it happened.
It seemed as their entire world stopped, as the grip on each other’s shoulders slowly turned into an embrace which turned into one of those kisses which took forever to actually come into fruition. Eventually, their lips finally met, arms wrapping around each other, and it seemed to me that this had been a long time coming.
Soon, moans ripped through their beings, and I suddenly wished I had arms so I could cover both my eyes and my ears. Hell, they took so long that my bottom burned from staying in the tin. Just a warning, I wouldn’t cook anything on that countertop without thoroughly disinfecting it beforehand.
As I am only a baked good, I’m sure I don’t understand some human tendencies, but the things they did - that can’t be normal. After my bottom was burnt and had an over-abundance of condensation built around my wrapper, they finally remembered about us and popped us out of the tin to finish cooling.
I didn’t notice anything else until the next day, when they were making breakfast. One stood at the counter, whipping up eggs in a bowl as the scent of brewing caffeine began to sweep throughout the room. The other came in, attempting to be quiet by walking on tiptoes before covering the other’s eyes with their fingers. Lips met that seemingly perfect curve where neck meets shoulder.
Apparently, this must have tickled, because soon the squirming began and giggles infiltrated the room with the smell of coffee. The whisk changed as it hit the counter top, a tickle fight sparked as they poked and prodded until they were rolling around on the floor wrestling and laughing, panting and sweating.
You can guess what that turned into.
This time, make sure you scrub the floor with bleach.
I was almost devoured then, in their after-glow hunger, but they decided to make the eggs after all. It was a close call: I was in the air, fingers on my wrapper, eyes gleaming with hunger. I was ready to meet the ultimate death, but thankfully I still had a few more days to live, thus me telling this story to you.
The day after that was a little tamer, but I could still see the love billowing like smoke around them. They made lunch, which was just a few sandwiches and chips, but they were obviously happy as they joked around, smiles permanently on their faces. Laughter range through the room like a bell as they sat down at the table: not across from each other, but next to one another, a hand placed on a thigh.
On Thursday, I believe it was, everything was different. There were no smiles or laughter as one of them entered the kitchen. Trouble brewed as soon as the other entered. Slamming of cupboards, the sloshing of milk as the carton was hastily put down, as the under-breath murmurs seemed to seep throughout the house.
It turned into a shouting match.
Now, if you don’t love someone, you’re not going to argue with someone about something as stupid as whether they were going to have red wine or white wine at the dinner party they were supposed to be having on Saturday.
I don’t know how it is for humans, but for us muffins, we’re not going to argue about something as stupid as wine choice if we don’t love the person. I knew in this case, it was exactly the same. The argument continued until they finally decided to flip a coin and realized how stupid they had been.
You might want to make sure you wash down the front of that fridge with bleach, those aren’t just fingerprints on that stainless steel front.
Friday and Saturday, they spent a lot of time in the kitchen preparing for the dinner party, which was having both red and white wine. I was highly surprised they didn’t just use caterers. After watching them attempt to make me, I knew these two weren’t culinary geniuses. This dinner party would be lucky to expect something a bit more complicated than peanut butter and jelly. The couple had a plan, as it was pinned on the fridge, but who knows if they would actually complete it.
The smoke alarm went off at least three times as they forgot about the crostini in the oven for the bruschetta. Then they ran out of eggs while trying to make a frittata. And then they forgot to temper the chocolate for the mousse and it ended up being a lumpy, chunky, and disgusting looking mess.
This was turning into a disaster very quickly. Was I surprised? Not really. Would I be surprised on what would happen next? Oh, yes.
Milk was sloshed on the counter, greens were haphazardly chopped and spread out everywhere, there was a pile of dirty dishes reaching the Tower of Pisa level, and the scent of burnt bread permeated the entire room. They had stopped running around like chickens with their heads cut off and just sat down in the middle of the kitchen on the hardwood floor, legs crossed, foreheads touching, breathing starting to regulate once again.
What in Betty Crocker hell was going on?
They began saying names of different cuisines. Chinese, Thai, French, until they stopped together on Italian. One took out their phone, dialed a few numbers and started a list of food. So, they were going to cater after all. At least the white wine would go well with the alfredo, the red with meatballs.
Saturday, I got mixed up in the hullabaloo of the dinner party and almost got thrown out until someone intervened. People bustled around the kitchen and I didn’t notice much about the lovebirds. Ugh, birds. I hate those bastards. Always trying to scavenge for stale muffins anywhere, pecking my eyes out. Anyway, I’m getting off track.
Everything went off without a hitch. Or at least, I believe so, since there wasn’t an explosion or screaming or ambulances or fire trucks. They took credit for the delivered food and apparently, they were believed. The kitchen smelled of garlic bread and fresh tomato sauce, and even I, a muffin, was hungry. I have to admit, they pulled it off well.
This morning was when all hell broke loose. Apparently the wrong people found out about their relationship and things were going south very fast. There were tears in barely eaten oatmeal, forktine-shaped dents made in the table from over talking with hands and heated discussion at the breakfast table.
It was going to end brilliantly or in heartbreak. I was hoping for the former. In my opinion, who cares about what other people think? Who you love is who you love, and I was optimistic that they would come to believe this as well.
Eventually, the anger in the room began to subside and they talked and talked and talked. The tears dried as they began to realize that no one mattered but them. They were the only ones in this relationship. No one else. They were the ones who knew what made the other keep ticking. They knew exactly what all us muffins know and believe in: love is love, screw everyone else.
That was this morning. Now, here you are, hungry for a delicious baked good in the hours between breakfast and lunch. I see the hunger in your eyes. And you know what? I’ll fully accept the ultimate death, since I’ve seen love in its purest form.
Author: Jordan [ Insane-pyro-grl Archive]
Rating: PG-13 for sexual references
Warnings: CRACK!Fic, weird concepts, general hilariousness.
Disclaimer: Don't know, don't own, didn't happen.
POV: 1st, Muffin's.
Word Count: 1,554
Summary: The story of the love between two people, from the perspective of a blueberry muffin sitting on the kitchen counter. It only takes less time for them to fall in love than it takes for the muffin to go stale.
Author's Note: This came to me when I was talking about pancakes. It's a little different than my usual style of writing, but both my friends and I enjoy it. I hope you love it as much as they have!
A Love Story [From the Point of View of a Blueberry Muffin]
Oh, hello there! I’m Duncan Hines-Wild Maine Blueberry Muffin, but you can call me Blue for short, if you’d like. You may be asking yourself right now, ‘a talking muffin? What the fuck was in that mix?’ but I assure you, you’re perfectly normal.
No, please, don’t throw me out, look, I’m still delicious! Wait, no, don’t eat me yet, don’t you at least want to hear what I have to say first? No? You’re just hungry? I’ll give you a stomachache if you’re not more careful. Now, go grab a glass of milk, sit down, and I’ll tell you a story while you chow down on my brother over there.
Okay, so now that you’re settled with a glass of milk and my brother already half-eaten, are you ready to hear my story? I’ll take that nod and the mumbling as crumbs tumble out of your mouth as a yes.
It started about a week ago, when I was freshly baked, warm, and at the peak of my deliciousness. Wait, no, my story isn’t over, don’t eat me yet, you fiend! Anyway, I was still sitting in the tin, waiting to cool when I first noticed it: love.
The two of them were covered in the muffin mix, their fingers that specific indigo color which were obviously steeped in blueberries, and they wore flowery aprons that had done nothing to keep the mess off of their clothes. As my ears were muffled by the tin, I couldn’t hear much, but I could tell they were laughing as hard as they possibly could, just by the way they were holding their bellies, their heads thrown back, mouths wide open, yet smiling at the same time. They held onto one another’s shoulders to keep from falling on the floor.
And that’s when it happened.
It seemed as their entire world stopped, as the grip on each other’s shoulders slowly turned into an embrace which turned into one of those kisses which took forever to actually come into fruition. Eventually, their lips finally met, arms wrapping around each other, and it seemed to me that this had been a long time coming.
Soon, moans ripped through their beings, and I suddenly wished I had arms so I could cover both my eyes and my ears. Hell, they took so long that my bottom burned from staying in the tin. Just a warning, I wouldn’t cook anything on that countertop without thoroughly disinfecting it beforehand.
As I am only a baked good, I’m sure I don’t understand some human tendencies, but the things they did - that can’t be normal. After my bottom was burnt and had an over-abundance of condensation built around my wrapper, they finally remembered about us and popped us out of the tin to finish cooling.
I didn’t notice anything else until the next day, when they were making breakfast. One stood at the counter, whipping up eggs in a bowl as the scent of brewing caffeine began to sweep throughout the room. The other came in, attempting to be quiet by walking on tiptoes before covering the other’s eyes with their fingers. Lips met that seemingly perfect curve where neck meets shoulder.
Apparently, this must have tickled, because soon the squirming began and giggles infiltrated the room with the smell of coffee. The whisk changed as it hit the counter top, a tickle fight sparked as they poked and prodded until they were rolling around on the floor wrestling and laughing, panting and sweating.
You can guess what that turned into.
This time, make sure you scrub the floor with bleach.
I was almost devoured then, in their after-glow hunger, but they decided to make the eggs after all. It was a close call: I was in the air, fingers on my wrapper, eyes gleaming with hunger. I was ready to meet the ultimate death, but thankfully I still had a few more days to live, thus me telling this story to you.
The day after that was a little tamer, but I could still see the love billowing like smoke around them. They made lunch, which was just a few sandwiches and chips, but they were obviously happy as they joked around, smiles permanently on their faces. Laughter range through the room like a bell as they sat down at the table: not across from each other, but next to one another, a hand placed on a thigh.
On Thursday, I believe it was, everything was different. There were no smiles or laughter as one of them entered the kitchen. Trouble brewed as soon as the other entered. Slamming of cupboards, the sloshing of milk as the carton was hastily put down, as the under-breath murmurs seemed to seep throughout the house.
It turned into a shouting match.
Now, if you don’t love someone, you’re not going to argue with someone about something as stupid as whether they were going to have red wine or white wine at the dinner party they were supposed to be having on Saturday.
I don’t know how it is for humans, but for us muffins, we’re not going to argue about something as stupid as wine choice if we don’t love the person. I knew in this case, it was exactly the same. The argument continued until they finally decided to flip a coin and realized how stupid they had been.
You might want to make sure you wash down the front of that fridge with bleach, those aren’t just fingerprints on that stainless steel front.
Friday and Saturday, they spent a lot of time in the kitchen preparing for the dinner party, which was having both red and white wine. I was highly surprised they didn’t just use caterers. After watching them attempt to make me, I knew these two weren’t culinary geniuses. This dinner party would be lucky to expect something a bit more complicated than peanut butter and jelly. The couple had a plan, as it was pinned on the fridge, but who knows if they would actually complete it.
The smoke alarm went off at least three times as they forgot about the crostini in the oven for the bruschetta. Then they ran out of eggs while trying to make a frittata. And then they forgot to temper the chocolate for the mousse and it ended up being a lumpy, chunky, and disgusting looking mess.
This was turning into a disaster very quickly. Was I surprised? Not really. Would I be surprised on what would happen next? Oh, yes.
Milk was sloshed on the counter, greens were haphazardly chopped and spread out everywhere, there was a pile of dirty dishes reaching the Tower of Pisa level, and the scent of burnt bread permeated the entire room. They had stopped running around like chickens with their heads cut off and just sat down in the middle of the kitchen on the hardwood floor, legs crossed, foreheads touching, breathing starting to regulate once again.
What in Betty Crocker hell was going on?
They began saying names of different cuisines. Chinese, Thai, French, until they stopped together on Italian. One took out their phone, dialed a few numbers and started a list of food. So, they were going to cater after all. At least the white wine would go well with the alfredo, the red with meatballs.
Saturday, I got mixed up in the hullabaloo of the dinner party and almost got thrown out until someone intervened. People bustled around the kitchen and I didn’t notice much about the lovebirds. Ugh, birds. I hate those bastards. Always trying to scavenge for stale muffins anywhere, pecking my eyes out. Anyway, I’m getting off track.
Everything went off without a hitch. Or at least, I believe so, since there wasn’t an explosion or screaming or ambulances or fire trucks. They took credit for the delivered food and apparently, they were believed. The kitchen smelled of garlic bread and fresh tomato sauce, and even I, a muffin, was hungry. I have to admit, they pulled it off well.
This morning was when all hell broke loose. Apparently the wrong people found out about their relationship and things were going south very fast. There were tears in barely eaten oatmeal, forktine-shaped dents made in the table from over talking with hands and heated discussion at the breakfast table.
It was going to end brilliantly or in heartbreak. I was hoping for the former. In my opinion, who cares about what other people think? Who you love is who you love, and I was optimistic that they would come to believe this as well.
Eventually, the anger in the room began to subside and they talked and talked and talked. The tears dried as they began to realize that no one mattered but them. They were the only ones in this relationship. No one else. They were the ones who knew what made the other keep ticking. They knew exactly what all us muffins know and believe in: love is love, screw everyone else.
That was this morning. Now, here you are, hungry for a delicious baked good in the hours between breakfast and lunch. I see the hunger in your eyes. And you know what? I’ll fully accept the ultimate death, since I’ve seen love in its purest form.