Work Text:
When the morning comes, Furina still sleeps cocooned in darkness, her curtains drawn with the care of someone who has learned to negotiate with daylight rather than surrender to it. Her troupe has grown used to it, even her rehearsals waiting for more… civilized moments, when the sun has climbed higher and her body has forgiven the cruelty of waking.
Yet today, consciousness pokes tentatively at her defenses, unwelcome and before its time.
It begins as texture—the whisper of fabric against skin, the subtle shift of weight that speaks of movement just beyond her awareness. Then come the sounds of running water, carelessly threading through the bathroom door he's forgotten to close. But it's the presence itself—his presence—that truly draws her from sleep's embrace. Even absent from her bedside, he lingers in the spaces between her thoughts, seeping through the cracks of her sleep-addled mind.
She indulges the pull, surfacing slowly.
Her body unfurls among the sheets—stretching, humming, purring. The sound carries, as she knew it would. As she intended it to.
He appears at her side immediately, as if summoned.
"Droplet," he calls, his voice carrying that soft quality he reserves for these stolen, intimate moments. She hoards each of these instances greedily, much like a dragon to treasure. "Did I wake you?"
"Mm... just'a bit..." Her voice is thick with sleep. "Getting ready for work?"
He nods, then settles beside her, the mattress dipping under his weight. His hand finds her cheek easily, readily—there's something almost eager about the gesture, like he's been waiting for a reason, any, to touch her.
"I apologize, love." His thumb traces across her cheekbone. She leans into the caress, seeking more of him. "I didn't mean to."
The words take time to penetrate the haze of her awakening mind. Her consciousness is still finding its footing, too busy cataloguing the rumble of his voice, the way his presence seems to settle something restless in her chest that she didn’t even know needed quieting. When understanding eventually arrives, laughter follows—born of fondness, rather than mockery.
How is he so terrible at this?
"You liar," she huffs.
"Liar?"
She captures his hand with her own, pressing it deeper into herself, tilting her head to brush her lips against his palm. There it is—that one scar that cuts across his skin, the one she memorized in those dizzied, awed moments when they first dared to hold hands.
"Mhm, liar," she confirms. "A bad one, too."
He raises a brow. "To what do I owe this unprovoked attack?"
Instead of answering, she gestures languidly, drawing him closer as if she were about to share some terrible, wonderful secret. When he's finally within reach, she snares his collar, pulling him toward her with sudden force until their faces hover mere inches apart. His eyes widen—barely perceptible, but enough to register as genuine surprise from someone so perpetually composed.
Didn't expect her to be so forceful first thing in the morning, did he?
"You meant to," is all she says.
He tilts his head in that particular angle of feigned innocence that makes her think of confused puppies. She really shouldn't have told him how endearing she finds it.
"You're stealthier than that. You meant to wake me—if you hadn't, you wouldn't have. Easy as that."
"And whyever would I wish to disturb your well-earned sleep? You truly think me so needlessly callous?"
"I think you needy."
"Pardon?" he blurts out, just the tiniest bit bewildered, and she takes shameless satisfaction in having caught him off-guard. She pulls him even nearer, wrapping her arms around his neck.
"You didn't want to head into work without a sweet, little treat, did you?" Her voice carries that lilt that emerges when she's particularly pleased with herself. "Just one kiss from your droplet." She leans closer until she can feel the warmth of his breath ghosting across her lips. "All you need to get through the day—one kiss. That's what you were telling yourself, wasn't it?"
He doesn't close the distance. He rarely does. It took her time to understand this about him—that his hesitation isn't rejection, but something more complicated, born of old wounds that make him wary of taking what he wants. He struggles with open affection the way some people struggle with foreign languages, caught between desire and the persistent whispers warning him against it.
But his fluency in quiet devotion is absolute.
"…Not in so many words," he finally admits, and her laughter returns.
Oh, her Knave. Whatever shall she do with him?
She brings their foreheads together, taking her time to memorize this closeness. He will have to leave once this ends, after all. He had the audacity to wake her for his own selfish needs—needs she shares, needs she's eager to fulfill—so he can afford to be a few minutes late to whatever dreadful violence awaits him in the morning light.
Or perhaps dreadful paperwork. Either or.
"You don't mind the morning breath?"
"I would never mind anything that comes from you, droplet. You could breathe poison and I would call it perfume."
"Ha! Once again you prove yourself a filthy, terrible liar. If that were true you would've actually read that book I lent you weeks ago."
"Admittedly even I have my limits—sparkly vampire erotica seems to be one such."
"Hmph. Weak. Your love for me has turned out to be oh so weak."
He chuckles, the sound vibrating through his chest. "May I be allowed to make my case to the contrary?"
She hums, considering with theatrical gravity. "I'll allow it—just once."
Something shifts in his expression then—the last of his hesitation dissolving, and her anticipation building in turn. He leans into her—finally—and the world instantly narrows to this single point of contact, all outside their quiet bubble vanishing at once.
The first kiss is barely a whisper—lips brushing against lips with the hesitant tenderness of someone handling something precious. It's so gentle it might be mistaken for an accident, so brief it leaves her wanting.
"That's your case?" she murmurs against his mouth, though her voice lacks any real criticism. "That's the most pathetic attempt at—"
"This is only the start," he interrupts, and there's something in his voice that makes her breath catch.
The second kiss carries weight. Still slow, still deliberate, but with a deeper press of lips that speaks of increased hunger and intention. Even so, his mouth finds hers with the patience of someone who has learned that the sweetest things are worth savoring, that urgency and desire need not be synonymous.
He shifts above her, his body covering hers, mindful of his weight. She tries to wrap her legs around him, but the sheets tangle around her limbs, a frustrating barrier between them. No matter. She pulls him closer anyway, her hands finding purchase on his shoulders, his back, anywhere she can reach. She wants him flush against her, wants to feel the solid weight of him, the way his body seems to anchor her to this quiet, borrowed, limited moment.
Her fingers tangle in his hair, making a purposeful mess of whatever careful styling he'd attempted. He'll have to spend extra time fixing it before he leaves, and the thought fills her with a petty, childish delight. Her nails scrape against his scalp, a slight tremor running through him at the contact.
But it's the kiss that demands her attention—this kiss that bears his unmistakable signature. When she takes control, their kisses become fire and haste, all teeth and desperate hunger. But this—this is his choreography. Slow, explorative, touched with that particular brand of restrained reverence that makes her feel like something sacred, to be worshiped.
His tongue traces across her lips, a gentle request that she grants without hesitation. He tastes faintly of mint and something hazy—of warmth borrowed from the harsh edges of duty, made tender in her mouth. The kiss deepens, but never loses its languid quality—the lazy, satisfied hunger that permeates it.
She makes a sound, soft and involuntary, and feels his answering vibration against her mouth. His teeth scrape gently across her lower lip, and she arches into him in response. He swallows every breath she offers him, as if trying to inhale her very essence, to carry the taste of her morning drowsiness with him into the day ahead.
Time dissolves, measured not in minutes but in the rhythm of their shared breathing. She loses herself in the texture of his mouth, even as awareness begins to creep in—the gentle, inevitable knowledge that this moment is finite. Each kiss carries the weight of approaching departure, and she finds herself trying to memorize the exact pressure of his lips, the particular way he tastes.
When they finally break apart, it's with the reluctance of curtains drawing close on a performance neither wants to end. Their foreheads come to rest together once more, breath mingling in the space between them.
"I suppose," she says, voice husky with the aftermath of indulgence, "that will have to suffice as evidence."
He smiles—one of those rare, genuine shows of unguarded contentment. "I'm gratified to have convinced you."
"Mm. Though you'll have to fix your hair before you go. I'm afraid I've made quite a mess of it."
He runs a hand through the tangled strands, unamused but unsurprised. "A small price for such a compelling argument."
"Indeed. Now go—before I decide to make you even later."
He presses one final kiss to her forehead, soft and lingering, and she giggles in delight. She watches him move toward the bathroom, already missing his presence but satisfied in the knowledge of a job well done.
The morning light has grown stronger now, creeping around the edges of her curtains, but she nonetheless pulls the covers over her head and settles back into sleep's embrace.
After all, such a brilliant performance surely earned her a few more hours of blissful rest.