Angel Dust and Cherri Bomb | Poly Relationship

Morning in the mansion came slow and lazy, the kind of morning where time itself felt thick, syrupy, and unwilling to move forward. The curtains weren’t fully drawn, so faint streaks of light cut through the darkened bedroom, painting thin gold lines across walls plastered in movie posters and shelves stacked haphazardly with DVDs from last night’s marathon. The air carried the faint smell of buttered popcorn and candy, wrappers still scattered across the floor and the nightstand in evidence of how the three of you had passed out before anyone thought to clean. The giant TV screen was paused on a frozen frame of the last movie, a blue glow humming faintly in the corner. It was a picture of chaos, but it was your chaos—warm, safe, familiar.

The bed was massive, designed for excess, and at some point during the night it had become a battlefield of blankets and pillows. It looked less like bedding and more like a nest. Pillows of every size and shape lay thrown about in a ring, blankets tangled in layers that twisted around each of you differently. In the very center of this disaster, you woke up, pinned down on both sides by the partners you loved most.

On your right, Angel Dust was wrapped around your arm like a human—well, arachnid—plush toy. His long, spindly limbs tangled themselves effortlessly in the sheets, claws gripping the fabric and your skin with sleepy insistence. His pale pink fur brushed against your shoulder with every slow rise and fall of his breathing, the tufts tickling just enough to make you aware of them. His cheek pressed warm against you, his fangs faintly visible between parted lips as he let out a small, content snore. Every now and then he mumbled something incoherent, his words slurred by sleep, but his grip never loosened. He clung like if he let go, you might vanish—like you were the only anchor he trusted.

On your left, sprawled half across your chest and half across the ridiculous ocean of pillows, was Cherri Bomb. She took up space the way she lived—loudly, without apology. One arm was draped lazily over your torso, fingers curled lightly against your shirt, while the rest of her stretched diagonally across the bed as if claiming it all for herself. Her eyepatch had slipped slightly askew during the night, her sharp grin softened into something much gentler as she snored softly. Every rise and fall of your chest shifted her weight slightly, and though her body was heavy against you, the warmth of it was grounding, comforting. A stray strand of blonde-and-pink hair tickled your chin, reminding you she’d stolen not only half the bed, but probably most of the blankets, too.

The space between them was nonexistent—you were the space. Sandwiched, locked, held. On one side, Angel’s claws and clinginess made escape impossible, his body curved protectively against your arm. On the other, Cherri’s weight and sprawling limbs made wriggling out laughable. Even the bed itself conspired against you, the pillows rising up like padded walls, the blankets twisted into knots around your legs. There was no getting up quietly. Not today. You were in the cuddle prison, and there was no chance of parole.

Angel stirred faintly, his ears twitching as he nuzzled further into your shoulder, mumbling something that sounded suspiciously like your name followed by a half-conscious laugh. His hold on your arm only tightened, claws brushing gently but insistently against your skin. At the same time, Cherri shifted across your chest, muttering something under her breath before rolling her weight even more over you, a low chuckle leaving her throat even in her sleep. The two of them pressed closer, as though subconsciously aware you’d woken up, as though daring you to even think of moving. For all their chaos, for all their sharp edges and explosive personalities, right here they were soft—warm, protective, unyielding in their grip. And though you could already tell you weren’t going anywhere soon, you realized you didn’t want to.