SNOOZE CRUISE āŖ sleepy time hcs - with and without you
characters included: lighter, manato, lycaon, hugo, yanagi (+ platonic soukaku), rina
content: fluff. really, just fluff. discussion of canon prosthetics, references to previous trauma.
Lighter ā
Lighter cobbles sleep together in pieces. He dozes off on his feet during gatherings or hooks his legs up over the handlebars of his bike to steal a few precious moments. Anything longer than a nap is playing with fire. That's when dreams creep in, smoke curling under the frame of a door he keeps firmly shut, suffocating, til he wakes up in a cold sweat, clawing at the chain around his neck, clinging to dogtags so they don't burn into his skin.
It's best when he's pushed himself to his limit. Dreams don't come when's he's too exhausted to think past his next step. He stumbles back home, limbs heavy and body weary, and collapses face down onto his bed fully dressed. Come morning, he'll regret not taking the time to peel himself out of his clothes. He'll regret his blood-crusted knuckles and the lingering stiffness in his bad arm - but never enough to trade them for his nightmares.
That habit didn't change when you found your way into his bed. You can nag and insist all you want, but there's no avoiding it. He'll drag himself in at the dead of night and flop right down onto you. No shower. Just the sheer weight of himāsweaty and exhausted, the throat-burning stench of the hollow clinging to himāflattening you into the mattress.
Lighter snores. Swears up and down that he doesn't, ears turning crimson the second you bring it up. He's not shaking the house down or anything, but it's loud enough to rattle his cool guy image. He drools, too - especially when he manages to knock out for more than his usual sparse hours. You'll wake up with a wet patch on your shirt if you let him stay asleep on top of you.
His number one sleep position, though? Little spoon. He makes excuses about it - because this way he can still face the door, see? It's safer. He promises. It has nothing to do with how good it feels to have you wrapped around him, head pressed between his shoulders. It has nothing to do with being held, with your palm over his heart like it's something sacred.
When you fall asleep against his shoulder, he freezes. He's stuck in time. It's a crime for him to move ā because what if he wakes you? What if he shifts and you slip away from his side? He'd never let you fall. Of course not. But if he jostles you too much, then you'll never lean against his side again.
He's the sort of sap that gets emotional when you're sleepy around here. He's heard all the anecdotal evidence about feeling sleepy around people you trust and he buys into it. You trust him. That's why you're sound asleep, head on his shoulder. He trusts you. That's why, when his eyes grow heavy and his back aches from holding still too long, he lets himself rest his head against yours.
Rina ā
Sleep hygiene is just as important as regular hygiene, and if you try to bend the rules when Rina is in your bed, you'll get more than just a lecture.
Phone on the nightstand, in do-not-disturb. One singular alarm - none of this six plus nonsense. She's up before your alarm anyway. Sheer force of habit; you thought you might someday glimpse her with her hair undone, gazing longingly out the window in her flowing nightgown, a specter to haunt any passerby who turns their gaze her way. If she does any haunting in the dead of night, she keeps it carefully hidden from you. You start to think it's much more likely that she takes the recommendation for a full, uninterrupted eight hours of sleep extremely seriously.
Rina has the most elaborate pillow set up in the world. A body pillow, a neck pillow, a pregnancy pillow ā this is just her first line of defense against bed bugs and charley horses. Her pillows are all on rotation, all prompty replaced every six months ā there's even little cushions for her wrists.
Rina, of course, knows how overwhelming all of this can be. She forsakes her comforts the first few times you spend the night with her. These things take time. You would be overwhelmed if she rearranged your bed on the first night. Poor thing. She knows she has to be patient with you. You rest your head on her chest and she coils herself around you bit by bit. Her legs wedge between yours. You hadn't anticipated that she would be quite so clingy ā and you're correct. Rina is simply focused on ensuring her knees have the proper support and spacing while she sleeps on her side. The deeper into sleep you fall, the more her arms tighten. You make for a fine (albeit temporary) replacement for her pillow arsenal.
Gradually, she introduces her pillows back into your bed. They appear one at a time, each an apparition that pops into existence while you're out at work. Explaining the use would be too obvious. It would expose her pillow-based scheme. Instead, she demonstrates their proper use each night, expecting you to pick it up subconsciously.
"Let me tidy up for you," she insists. You can only turn down the offer so many times before you start to rationalize it. Maybe this is how she shows her love. Maybe it's acts of service off and on the clock, and words of affirmation wrapped around you the second you stepped in the door. A warm shawl knit from praise, a hot mug of tea pressed to your hands.
Her true intent is, of course, to intertwine her belongings and habits seamlessly with your own. You don't realize it until the conquest is complete ā until your bedroom has been transformed into a fluffy haven.
"Ah, yes," you drone, propping yourself up on an elbow to watch Rina pile her hair into a satin wrap. "Me. My girlfriend. And this brick wall she's built between us."
"A down wall," Rina corrects. She leans across the pillow dividing you to kiss your temple. "Would you like to cuddle before bed?"
Of course you do. Even if you're going to wake up to a pillow wedged between you, you'll fall asleep curled up in each other.
Yanagi ->
For a while, you thought she just didn't like you that much. She kept rescheduling nights at your place, kept having work emergencies that made her leave early, taking her spend-the-night bag with her. You understood - honestly, you did. She's a busy woman, she's got a kid, the whole nine yards. You wouldn't still be there if you expected things to move at your pace.
But it was starting to feel purposeful. So one night, holding her bag out to her while she slipped back into her heels and pinned her hair up, you just ripped the bandaid off. Was this going anywhere? Was there something wrong? If she didn't want to sleep over yet, she could just say that - no need for pretend, no need to bring along props or plan out the night.
Yanagi fumbles with her words. She fidgets, adjusts her glasses, strokes her hair back. You brace yourself for the inevitable, for the 'this isn't working'. She says your name lowly. Lamplight gleams off her glasses.
She confesses with all the seriousness of a general sending you to your death:
She has to have noise to sleep.
That's all. She acted like it was a big deal, said she understood if you would rather sleep in separate rooms ā or, perhaps, not even together at all. She's flustered when you remind her that ear plugs existā that this, in the grand scheme of things, is nothing. You can accommodate that.
The next time your schedules (and the stars) align, you march her back to the bedroom to show off your fancy new white noise machine. 33 different sounds. High fidelity stereo sound. You flick through a few different options, wiggling your fingers and waiting for her review.
It takes months for her to introduce you to Soukaku, and even longer for a proper sleepover at her place. After it all settled into routine, you found that Yanagi's bed was frequently abandoned in favor of the couch. Rather than keep you awake with tossing and turning, she folds the covers back over you, turns off the sound machine (moved from your apartment to hers permanently) and escapes into the TV's low drone.
Some nights, you wake alone. You can piece together the order of events. Yanagi fled the bed first. She untangled herself from the both of you, placed the covers back - tucked you in, even, if the covers at your back are any indication. Then, Soukaku - hair mussed, yawning big, pushing at her eyes and blearily calling for Nagi from the bedroom door. She would have clambered out of her bed, left the covers a mess behind her.
If you sleep through Soukaku's calls, you'll slip out of bed at brink of dawn to find both of them asleep on the couch. The TV plays a compilation of old infomercials, casts them a flickering glow. Yanagi sits upright, glasses askew, Soukaku passed out with her head on her thigh.
You slip her glasses from her face and settle onto her opposite side. Your head nestles against her, throw blanket carefully arranged over the three of you. You need to get a larger blanket, you think. This, too, you can accommodate.
Lycaon ->
Big. Fluffy. Warm.
That's what you anticipated. It's not quite what you got.
You wake up with fur in your mouth. A cold, wet nose presses below the hinge of your jaw has you shuddering awake. You squirm and he has the audacity to huff - as if he hadn't just wrested you out of sleep. His arms tighten around your waist, drag you closer, maw hooking over your shoulder to anchor you there.
"Not yet," Lycaon grouses. It's his (only slightly) more dignified version of 'five more minutes'.
His finesse unspools behind closed doors. He lets you pick at the buckles of his restraints one by one until he's unbound before you. Late nights are for catching up. The petals of his flowered language fall away while he removes his prosthetics and carries out his nightly routine.
All the irritants and complaints of the day, the little things he had brushed off, the small moments he had smothered a smile at ā he lays it all at your feet while he brushes his tail. You swap stories until he's curled around you, his voice and words gradually roughened. Even with his prosthetics off, he manages to envelop you. His tail is insistent, tucked around you, swishing and lashing ā emotive for the first time all day.
God help you if you have to get up in the middle of the night. He's a light sleeper, and he prefers to have you in his arms through the night. He's grumbling when you stir, grip tightening, only releasing you when you insist. And if you take too long? There's a very sleepy, very ruffled, very grouchy wolf thiren watching you from the doorway. He guides you back to bed with a hand between your shoulders. No more detours. Just because he can sleep without you doesn't mean he would choose to.
He's not quite the morning person you would think he is; once he's up, he's golden. Put together and professional, ready for the day. In those early hours, though, his voice is still scratchy. He yawns, tongue curling, jaw clicking shut. The alarm clock has nearly rattled off the nightstand by the time his big paw smacks it silent. He shakes the sleep off, ears slapping with the force of it, and even then, he's still groggy and grouchy well into his routine.
On rare mornings where he has nowhere to be, he rests his muzzle against the pillow and watches you go about your routine. He's still, save for the occasional swish of his tail and the prick of his ears. He'll be up in just a moment. He swears it. He just wants to soak in a little more time like this, to bask in the sun on his fur, in your easy, unhurried motions. Allow him this indulgence before he picks up everything he had laid down the night before.
Hugo ā
Of course, by the time you're out of the shower, he will have put himself together ā bound up for the day, looking professional and well-groomed while he tends to breakfast. He saves his tail bindings for last. How else would you get to watch it wag when you step into the room?
Hugo is the king of microsleeps. Genuinely, he could fall asleep anywhere.
Can and will sleep with his eyes open. It's awful. You'll be talking to him, thinking wow ā he's so engaged with this story. Can't wait to hear his insights. Surely he has some revolutionary pearl of wisdom to share.
And then you'll see it - the way his eyes suddenly sharpen, the way his they flutter as he blinks the sleep back. Somehow, fresh out of sleep, he's raring to go. No grogginess, no nothing ā just mild surprise that you're before him now. He knows you hate it, too, and deliberately leans into it to get on your nerves. "Well, hello ā when did you get here?"
He's been known to fall asleep mid-conversation ā especially if you're chatting with Vivian. It's his favorite white noise. The steady chatter, the soft peals of laughter - you're both close by, safe. His head tips back, arms folded loosely across his chest. He doesn't shift, doesn't make a sound. He's a silent, still sleeper, would be perfectly at home in a coffin.
It's hard to stay mad at him for falling asleep (and he knows it) because, frankly, he doesn't adhere to a regular sleep schedule. Between his above board, legit practices and his less-than-savory business ventures, he runs himself ragged. He's grown to appreciate it. Hugo feels restless without something to work towards. Sleep comes easier when he's filled his days with his ambitions and his limbs are heavy from the effort.
Still ā there's a peace that comes over him when he truly sleeps. His features soften. That ever-present vigilance falls slack. You brush the hair from his face and there's no teasing comment, no snatching your wrist. Just the subtle lean into your touch, his most vulnerable self craving the contact. He will never truly slow down, but in moments like these you can imagine a future where he's content. Where he dozes like this regularly and the bags under his eyes have disappeared entirely.
Surprisingly, he's not prone to nightmares ā not ones that he remembers, anyway. Sometimes he'll wake with nothing but dread and a cold sweat. Hugo centers himself with tactile sensation, with temperature. He kicks the covers off of himself, tucks them in around you to keep you insulated from his sudden downturn in mood. He shuffles into the kitchen, finds himself making a hot drink and an ice water just to alternate sips of them.
You'll have to drag him to bed most nights. Hugo lies as easy as he breathes. He'll be right there, he swears it. You leave the lamp on, wait for her to crawl into bed next to you. Before you know it, you've passed out with the lamp on. You stir hours after he promised to come to sleep, to see him with his hand on the switch, caught like a kid with his hand in the cookie jar.
He's easily most likely to let his personal care habits slack. As a result, the top drawer of your nightstand has become an emergency stash. He stumbles to bed, looks a little too pale, words a little too slow and slurred, and you're practically launching a packet of fruit snacks at his face.
Manato ā
A veritable jungle gym of a man. The kids swing from his arms and climb all over him, only to tire themselves out and crash, curled into his side, cheeks squished against his chest. He doesn't let it stop him from carrying about his day. He curls his arms around them, balances them where they lay and lets them snooze away while he runs errands.
It's not uncommon to see Manato heading back from the store, sleeping kid in one arm and a mountain of groceries in the other. His steps smooth unconsciously, gait gliding, rocking them further to sleep. It's as easy as breathing, second nature to keep them comfortable when they're bundled up against him.
Manato's the kind of partner to recognize when you need a break and enforce it. If you're walking around dead on your feet, then it's his job to get you to rest. It's not always right away, but when he realizes it ā whether your social battery is completely drained or you're just exhausted ā he's leaning close, his voice a low rumble. "You ready to go?"
And if you insist that you can stay, that you're not tired, that's cool. He'll respect that for all of about ten minutes. Then he's bumping you with his shoulder, the question evaporated from his voice. "I'm ready to go."
You can cling to him like the kids, too, if you want. Shoes hurt your feet? Just too tired to stand? He's crouching down, waiting for you to climb onto his back. It doesn't matter if you're big or small. What, you think he can't carry you? That's just gonna make him carry you harder. Or, well ā more often. He adapts that same smooth, steady gait as he navigates back home. You'll be lucky if the warmth, the steady pulse of his heart, and the easy pace he sets doesn't lull you to sleep before you've even crossed the threshold.
He'll flop down on top of you on request, but he finds itā¦ not weird. Well, a little weird. He's just concerned. He's muttering 'can you even breathe?' while you're smothered by his weight. It's secure, it's cozy, yeah ā whatever you say. He's not buying it.
Manato would much rather you sleep on top of him. (Hypocrite.) It just makes sense. His chest is broad, see? And you're always saying how warm he is, so you probably don't even need a blanket. You can squirm, can toss and turn all you like. It doesn't particularly bother him. He's your favorite nap spot, after all. He's more than content to stretch out on the couch with you firmly in place. His thick arms act as guard rails to keep you from spilling out onto the floor when you shift. He's not hearing any apologies, either. The kids are way worse than this.
Besides. When you plop down on him like that, you're going to be there for a while. He shows you post after post on his phone ā often from the forums, but sometimes he just uses it as your daily catch up. Why text you every funny thing he comes across when he knows he'll have a captive audience? This way, he can see your reactions for himself.
