Chapter Text
The first few days after Charlie welcomed Angel Dust into the Happy Hotel were... loud, to say the least. Angel, now their very first Patreon guest, quickly made himself at home—and by “home,” that meant doing whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted.
He didn’t follow rules. He didn’t even ask what the rules were. He strutted around like he owned the place, kicking his feet up on tables, flirting with furniture, and cracking jokes at every opportunity. But more than anything, he found one particular thing absolutely hilarious: messing with Vaggie.
It started small. A sarcastic comment here, a dramatic eye roll there. But then Angel came up with a nickname that had Vaggie grinding her teeth every time he opened his mouth.
“Hey, Vagina! Got any of that weird coffee left?” Angel would yell from across the lobby.
“It’s VAGGIE!” she’d snap back, fists clenched.
Angel just grinned, satisfied. It was way too easy.
He’d make sure to say it loud enough for everyone to hear, always with that smug smirk and a wink. He’d toss the nickname into every sentence, like it was part of her actual name. “Vagina, could you grab me a towel?” “Vagina, you’re no fun.” “Vagina, don’t you ever smile?”
Every time, Vaggie’s eye would twitch a little more.
Charlie tried to keep the peace. “Angel, can you please stop calling her that?” she asked once, hands clasped politely.
“What? I’m just showing affection!” Angel said, clearly not sorry at all.
It became a running game for him. He counted how many times he could say it in one day before Vaggie started yelling. And it wasn’t long before yelling turned into screaming.
Angel lived for the reactions. Vaggie hated his guts.
Angel Dust had a very loose definition of the word “emergency.”
To him, an emergency could be anything from running out of eyeliner to losing sight of his favorite stash spot for five whole minutes. He’d throw himself dramatically across furniture, flailing like he was dying, yelling at the top of his lungs.
“CODE RED! I REPEAT, CODE RED! I CAN’T FIND MY POWDER—WE’RE ALL GONNA DIE!”
Charlie would usually rush in, half-panicked, thinking something serious had happened. Vaggie, on the other hand, didn’t even flinch anymore. She’d just sigh, mutter something in Spanish, and walk out of the room before she strangled him.
But Angel wasn’t just about fake emergencies. No, no—he was a man of variety.
Over the days, his pranks evolved. He got crafty. Creative. Dangerous, even—if glitter bombs could be considered a weapon of chaos.
He couldn’t help himself. Every day at the Happy Hotel was an opportunity for drama, a chance to dial life’s volume up to eleven.
He’d flop onto the lobby’s velvet couch, hands thrown wide, eyes wild. “EMERGENCY!” he declared to the room, voice clipped and theatrical. “This is not a drill. I—I've misplaced my stuff. My precious meds!”
He waited for the reaction—the snap of Vaggie’s head, the dramatic sigh from Charlie. He smirked, knowing they'd come running, only to find him rummaging through an empty purse, or fishing out nothing but candy wrappers.
Of course, that was just round one.
It started with tape traps stretched across doorways, invisible until someone walked straight into them. Vaggie was the first victim. She hit the floor like a sack of bricks and let out a furious screech that echoed through the halls. Angel laughed so hard he nearly fell over.
Then came the water bucket phase. Classic. Predictable. But still funny every time. He’d balance one over the doorway and wait like a gremlin around the corner.. Vaggie would push open the door, drenched, steam curling around her in an instant. Angel would stand under the splatter, theatrically shielding himself, declaring something like, “I call this immersive hydration therapy!”
Husk and Niffty got soaked once. Charlie... well, she was too light-footed. That girl had trap-dodging instincts.
But nothing beat his crowning glory: the wheat-and-boogie trap.
He’d scatter wheat flour across the floor right before someone walked in, sending them sliding like it was a cartoon. Sometimes it was just to mess with them. Other times it was part of a chain reaction—wheat, trip wire, feathers, the works. A full-on prank symphony.
Every prank was small, trivial—harmless, even. But his timing was impeccable, his delivery perfection. He thrived on that swell of reaction—Vaggie’s flame-red face, her controlled breaths, her clenched fists barely visible at her sides.
He kept a tally in his head of how many times he could get Vaggie to scream his name like a curse word. It was practically music to his ears.
“ANGEL DUST!”
“That’s me, Vagina!” he’d call back sweetly, batting his lashes while hiding the string to the next trap behind his back.
Angel’s masterpiece, however, was the shower stunt.
He’d been giggling to himself for a full hour while setting it up. A simple mix of heat-sensitive dye in the soap—nothing harmful, just enough to dye skin a bright, glowing red for a few minutes. Totally temporary. Totally hilarious.
The trap was set. The moment Vaggie stepped into the shower, it went off like magic.
Not five minutes later, she stormed down the hallway, wrapped in a towel, dripping wet, and red. And not just in the face—from head to toe, she looked like a furious tomato. Angel peeked out from behind a corner, biting his lip to keep from laughing too early.
“Aw, Vaggie,” he cooed, grinning ear to ear. “That color really brings out your personality. Mood: steaming hot rage.”
Vaggie stopped mid-step, fists clenched, eyes twitching. Steam rose off her skin and not just from the water. Angel braced himself—he was certain she was going to throw something. Maybe him.
Before she could erupt, Charlie appeared like a ray of sunshine on a stormy day, slipping between them with her usual calm.
“Vaggie, wait—don’t let him get to you,” she said gently, placing a hand on her arm. “You look adorable. Like a sweet strawberry.”
Angel couldn’t believe it. Adorable? Oh, this was gold.
He opened his mouth, ready to throw in another jab—something about hot peppers or emotional damage—but before a single syllable left his lips, slam!
The bathroom door shut hard in his face. Right in the middle of his smug little smirk.
From the other side of the door, he could hear Charlie’s soft voice rising into song, completely unfazed.
Angel blinked, mouth still half-open.
“…Did she just— sing at her?”
He stared at the door for a moment, half amused, half insulted.
“Well, damn,” he muttered. “She gets musical numbers and I get death threats.”
Angel sauntered away, still chuckling to himself. Oh, this wasn’t over. Not even close.
And tomorrow? He had glitter. Lots of it.
The next morning, Angel was up early. Way too early for anyone expecting peace and quiet.
He tiptoed down the hall, arms full of supplies: a dozen tiny jars of glitter—each one a different shade and sparkle intensity. He had silver, gold, hot pink, toxic green, and one he was pretty sure was labeled “cosmic rage.” Perfect.
Today’s mission: Operation Glitterbomb.
He'd been planning it since the second that bathroom door slammed in his face. Oh, sure, Charlie singing was sweet, but Angel wasn’t about to let his ultimate prank status be overshadowed by a musical number.
He started by rigging Vaggie’s dresser. A fine wire hooked to the drawer, just enough pressure to pop the glitter trap the second she pulled it open. Inside? A custom mix of all shades—Angel’s own “Vaggie Vex Blend.” Heavy on the sparkle, light on the mercy.
Next: her combat boots. A light dusting in the toes. Enough to puff out like fairy dust clouds every time she took a step.
And finally, the pièce de résistance—the ceiling fan in her room. A shallow bowl of glitter taped to the top blades, balanced perfectly. All it would take was one flick of the switch and boom . Instant disco inferno.
Angel strutted away like a man who had just painted a masterpiece.
He waited.
It started with a scream. A guttural, soul-rattling scream from down the hall.
Then coughing.
Then more screaming.
He ran to peek, pretending to just be “passing by.”
Vaggie stood in the middle of her room, absolutely covered in glitter. It was in her hair, her eyelashes, her teeth . The air sparkled around her like she'd been trapped in a glitter tornado.
Her face—red again, but this time not from soap dye—was a twitching, furious mess.
Angel leaned on the doorframe, biting his lip to keep from bursting.
“Oh. My. Satan,” he said, barely holding it together. “Vaggie, you’re radiant. Like a homicidal Christmas ornament.”
Vaggie opened her mouth, but all that came out was rage-flavored static. She stomped forward—and with every step, her boots puffed glitter like angry smoke bombs.
Before she could murder him on the spot, Charlie appeared again, floating in with that same peaceful tone like this was just another Tuesday.
“Oh my gosh,” Charlie gasped, covering her mouth. “You look… stunning.”
“CHARLIE—” Vaggie started, but before she could continue, the ceiling fan clicked on behind her.
Whirrrrrr—
Angel watched as the fan spun up... then exploded in a glitterstorm. Sparkles rained from the ceiling like divine punishment, coating everything in sight.
“AND THAT’S MY CUE!” Angel cackled, bolting down the hall as Vaggie let out a scream that could curdle blood.
He could still hear it as he slammed the lounge door behind him, throwing himself onto the couch in wheezing laughter.
“Oh, man,” he wiped a tear from his eye. “That one’s going in the Hall of Fame.”