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“Mornin’, sunshine!”
A familiar voice booms nearby, waking you from your peaceful sleeping state. You moan and groan, but sit up begrudgingly, trying to wipe the sleep from your eyes.
“Mmwuh…?”
An odd sight greets you: Stan- even less of a morning person than you are– hovering over your bedside, almost chipper. “Y’sure got a way with words, doll.”
Before the question on your tongue can escape, Stan plops something hefty down on your lap–
It’s old TV tray, filled to the brim with offerings. In the center is a large stack of lopsided heart-shaped pancakes, piled with colorful berries and whipped cream. Beside it: a bacon and egg face with a grin to match your own, and a large rose with forget-me-nots to frame the whole thing.
“Stan, oh my gosh, what–”
Stan chuckles, face flushing ever-so-slightly, hands going to his hips in pride. “What, can’t a guy just do somethin’ nice?”
It’s then you realize what he’s wearing– or rather, what he’s not–
“Are you naked under that apron??” You laugh, covering your burning cheeks.
And he is, save for his ever-present gold chain and glasses; the pink ruffles accentuate his shoulders and show off his chest hair… is it possible for something to be simultaneously hot and hilarious?
Stan gestures to himself shamelessly. “Well, every meal needs an ‘amused bush–’”
You nearly choke on a bite of bacon. “An… ‘amuse-bouche’??“
“Hey, you said it, not me.” You share a laugh. He sure is getting more creative with his innuendos.
“Well c’mon then, I’m starving,” you pat the space on the bed by your side before cutting the heart-stack in half.
Stan grimaces. “Err, I better clean up the kitchen first… there’s batter everywhere–”
“Clean it up later! Besides, you wouldn’t expect me to eat all this by myself, would you?”
He gives you a look to say 'do you really want me to answer that?' as he makes his way to you around the bed. You snort at the view of his bare backside as he moves… Looks like it’s gonna be a full moon tonight.
Stan finally settles at your side, adjusting the apron in his lap and resting his head in his palm. “Hope y’like ‘em– I’m almost positive there’s no hair in ‘em.”
“What’re the odds?”
“Meh… one t’seven?”
“Alright, I’ll take it,” you laugh, offering him a strawberry. He accepts, and takes it from your fingers with his teeth and a muffled ‘tankfs’.
The two of you sit and chat as you eat, making quick work of the food. As you lick a stray drop of syrup from your thumb, Stan gives a sigh of contentment.
“Satisfied?” you ask, brushing his hair from his forehead.
“Mmm.. almost. I think there’s somethin’ I forgot.”
You frown. “No, everything’s per–”
But you can’t argue further, his eager lips pressing firmly against your own. Of course…
Stan starts to pull away, but you bring him right back, loving the warmth and the coziness of him, his chuckle and his hand as it makes its way into your hair.
“Y’want seconds?” He asks, smile mischievous and glowing.
You reply with a hum and another kiss, fingers dancing past his clavicle and to the pink bow at his neck, where they tug gingerly until it slips loose and down past his shoulders…