Priscilla drearily opens one eye, the jade iris glowing from the dying daylight. She shifts slightly, the wood of the window sill pleasantly warm from the sun. The sleepy crossbreed stretches her tail, curling it and uncurling it as she idly sratches her ear.
Sunday afternoon cat naps are Priscilla's absolute favorite, and since Sær normally goes fishing around noon, it's the perfect time to curl up into a ball and snooze without worrying about suffocating her man. Sleeping in a ball is the most natural way to rest for a dragon; it protects their underbelly, the only area not covered with scales. Priscilla curls right back up, hugging her tail and draping one of her wings over her head, making her look like a perfect fluffy sphere.
She is just drifting off once more when the sound of the door opening pulls her from her stupor. Her nose is hit with a strong waft of Sær-smell; the scent of cedar wood, fresh linens, and the nostalgic odor of a fresh sea breeze.
Priscilla's tail springs to attention, straightening out like a plank. She jolts awake, poised to leap from the cushioned window sill, but Sær stops her before she can.
"Shhh," he whispers, running up the wall to clamber on to the sill. "Go back to sleep."
Priscilla nods and lays back down.
"You know," Sær says. "If you keep sleeping on the window sill, you'll have to change your name."
"To what...?" Priscilla asks, dreading the answer.
"Pris-sill-a," he replies, suppressing a smile through pursed lips while laughing through his nose.
"How long did it take you to craft that horrid jape?" Priscilla asks flatly.
"'Bout two, three hours."
She rolls her eyes. "Did you at least catch many fish?"
Her husband shakes his head sadly. "Just a few salmon."
"Oh," Priscilla replies, struggling to keep the disappointment from her voice. She hasn't eaten all day, and a few salmon barely constitutes a snack.
Yawning, she curls back up into a ball so that Sær can't see the dissapointed look on her face. She had been napping, after all, and she doesn't want to seem ungrateful for his effort.
Sær crawls up to her, pulling a blanket over the both of them. I know what will cheer her up, he thinks.
He pokes the top of Priscilla's head.
"Excuse me, miss," he says. "Who wants da smooches?"
Priscilla blushes, curling up into herself even more.
Sær doesn't let up. "Who wants da smooches? Do you want da smooches?"
"Mmm," Priscilla mumbles, embarrassed.
"Who wants da smooches?"
"I do," Priscilla whispers.
Unsatisfied, Sær continues. "Who wants da smooches?!"
"I do," Priscilla says loudly.
"Who wants da smooches?!"
Priscilla relents. "I do! I want da smooches! I want them I want them I want them! I want da smooches!!!"
Satisfied, Sær darts forward, planting smooch after smooch on her face. Priscilla giggles and shrieks as her face is lavished with kisses, each one feeling as good as the last.
The smooches eventually slow, however, and Priscilla is having none of it. "I want da smooches!" She repeats. Sær renews the frenetic pace of his volley of kisses, slowing again after a minute. Priscilla repeats the chant over and over each time, and she is peppered with smooches for a quarter of an hour.
Priscilla lays back and sighs happily, her face tingling.
Sær nuzzles her face, giving her one last peck on the cheek. "Would you like some cuddles with your smooches, madam?" He asks, bowing.
Priscilla giggles. "Yes good sir, that would be splendid."
"That will be ten thousand souls."
Priscilla looks up at him questioningly.
"...Or equivalent in return-cuddles," he smirks.
Without a word, Priscilla opens her arms, and Sær wraps his own around her middle. She diligently proceeds to pay him in full, holding him tightly.
A deal is a deal, after all.