"Demon's Metamorphosis: The Becoming of Angel Dust"
2 Points
Rainbow sparks and a surge of energy whirl around you, a dizzying morph of hues sucking you from your cozy reading nook into something entirely different. The world becomes a melding cauldron of colors and caricatures.
First, your body elongates, stretching up, up—until you peer down, standing well over eight feet tall. Every inch blooms white fur, interrupted only by splotches of light-pink, centered by a heart splotch beating conspicuously over your chest.
You gasp, stumbling slightly as you adjust to the height, feeling the heel of the reddish-grey thigh-high boots grounding you. Your hands—no, your gloves—cerise pink and white, now extend into multiple limbs, four arms blooming from your sides like spider’s legs. In a clatter of confusion, eight arms can extend if wanted. Did you always have six—no, eight—arms? It’s hard to recall, the memories seeping through like grains of sand.
A reflective surface catches your eye. Staring back at you is not the human face you remember but a visage with cerise pink irises, misaligned sharp teeth with one prominent golden fang, and thick lashes framing your eyes, one mismatched with yellow sclera. Your lips twitch, pulling into a trademark, wide grin—it’s instinctive.
“What the—?!” is the last coherent human thought you manage before your vision swims with memories like an old film reel. Smells of smoky bars mix with the acrid scent of fear from past dealings. Salty tears from a long-blurred childhood wash into the memories of sleek suits and miniskirts, nights filled with battles, flirting, drugs, and the small flicker of hope that redemption might come.
Across the blaring billboards of Hell’s skyline, Vox’s face flares up, a singsong voice echoing in your mind, “Hey Angel, did ya miss me?”
Your instinctive retort surprises you, every word slipping out as if you’ve said it a thousand times. “Only as much as I miss a goddamn toothache, Vox.”
You shake your head. No, no, you weren’t—yet you were—Angel Dust, and everything else was slipping like a sieve.
Those cerise pink memories meld, reeling you in deeper. You scuttle down an alley, the scent of Italian food briefly comforting before Valentino’s snarling face invades your mind, making you feel small, yet defiant. You’d been tough before, and the transformation hardens you further.
His voice rings heavy and grating, "Pet, don’t forget who owns you."
"Yeah, yeah, Valentino. Whatever keeps ya feelin’ important," you manage, sarcasm still your defense, the world your stage now. Angel Dust’s memories fit like a second skin, his voice blending with yours until they are indistinguishable.
A glimmer of your former self fights, trying to reclaim sanity. What did I read earlier? Weren’t they just pages? Yet, it slips—nothing but a fleeting thought in the mind of Angel Dust, spider-like demon of Hell, known only as a sinner who died in 1947.
The Hotel looms. Charlie’s script again—a mess—but you scoff it off. You remember her, her redemptive aspirations infuriatingly naive. “Geez, Charlie, why do ya gotta be so optimistic? Makes ya look pathetic.”
But your heart, covered in fluff, concealed truths. A reality of defenses around that small hope. The aggressive flirtations, harsh words, and battles—just masks for protection.
In the mist of the Hellish cacophony, the last vestiges of your human past fade to nothing, subsumed by Hell’s stories. Every quirk, habit, memory, aligned with Angel Dust. As you stand in the lobby with quirky Niffty scuttling around and Husker’s grumbled dissent, the understanding solidifies.
“You alright, Angel?” Husker’s gravelly voice calls out.
“All the fuckin’ way, old man,” you purr with a grin, fully embraced—Angel Dust, the only past worth remembering, a blazing future in Hell.
Your transition complete, you barely recognize anything else—it was always Angel Dust. Flamboyant, rash, flirtatious, troubled. All that remained etched in your identity—a sinner demon seeking perhaps warily, a route through the inferno.
This story was generated by user JesterImps2 with assistance by one of OpenAI’s large-scale language-generation model; prompts used to help generate the story are shown below.
Images were generated with OpenAI's AI system, DALL·E 2, or uploaded by the user.
AI Prompts
Prompt: Write the POV transformation story of a human reader instantly turning into Angel Dust (from an adults cartoon/animated series Hazbin Hotel), complete with art style shift (the reader now being in a cartoon world of the Hazbin Hotel series, and the reader now becoming a cartoon character with the same art style as the other Hazbin Hotel characters, rather than being a real life person), gender change (if the reader is a female), instant clothes change, age progression (aging until the reader is biologically somewhere around the 30s), height progression (growing from an average 5.7-6 foot height to 8 feet tall), reality change (the reader's real world becoming the world of Hazbin Hotel), and mind/mental change (with the reader's personalities and memories being completely replaced with Angel Dust's personality and memories, despite the reader's best efforts of fighting his/her new personality and memories, making the reader completely forget he was a normal human person, even forgetting that the transformation that just occurred seconds ago, and only remembered ever being a sinner demon who died as a human man somewhere in 1947, and he remembers being a spider-like demon named "Angel Dust" since his mortal death). For Angel Dust's appearance (after the reader turned into him), he is a sinner demon who has a slender build (almost mimicking feminine curves, despite being a male) and he stands about 8 or more feet tall, both due to his long torso and legs, as well as his heeled boots. His fur is white and he has a mop of fluffy white hair that extends from both the front and back of his head, with splotches of light-pink across it. He also has a distinctive and focal light-pink heart pattern on the back of his head. The light-pink outline of a heart also encircles his chest, the bottom point of which extends past his waistband and down to his crotch area. His eyelids are light pink and the color extends up to his eyebrows, giving the effect of eyeshadow, and his lashes are dark and thick. His irises are cerise pink. His right eye has a light yellow sclera, his left eye has a dark sclera. He has a wide mouth full of sharp, pointed teeth and possesses a single golden fang that sits slightly to his right of center. He has a New York accent. He has three cerise-pink dots under each of his eyes, which are intended to evoke freckles, although they are actually another set of smaller eyes. He lacks a nose and ears, giving him a less "human" appearance. One of Angel's most noticeable features is his prominent chest. The chest is actually composed entirely of fluffy fur, however, which Angel intentionally pushes up into a breast-like formation with his tightly pinned jacket for show. Angel's everyday attire consists of a long light pink suit-blazer with horizontal white stripes down the length, reddish-grey miniskirt, and long reddish-grey thigh-high heeled boots, accessorized with a reddish-grey bowtie with a cerise pink center and a black choker. On his top set of arms he wears long cerise pink gloves with white detailing at the cuffs, on his bottom set of arms he wears long white gloves. Though, usually seen with six limbs (two legs and four arms), Angel has a third retractable set of arms that he usually keeps hidden but can summon at will (meaning that he can have eight limbs; two legs and six arms). Angel is gay (homosexual), brash, and sarcastic, with a quick, sharp wit, often with bad/strong language (including, but not limited to f-bomb words). He will often use these traits to deflect criticism or insults, and side-step responsibility. He will switch between playful and destructive as he pleases, and his humor tends to be crude and crass, with an emphasis on dirty jokes and innuendos, which he feels is expected of him and actively plays into. He is stylish and performs an excessive amount of confidence with his public persona, being wildly flirtatious and interested in receiving positive attention for his looks and the profile he has made for himself in Hell. He also makes a show of looking down others, declaring the other denizens of Hell to be mostly "ugly freaks". As a result, Angel can often appear flippant and callous. In reality he is preemptively defensive and hides much of his true, more sensitive and insecure, self for his own protection, not expecting those around him to show him kindness. Angel does have friends, and while he cares about them and will sometimes show signs of wanting to reach out, he keeps many walls up between himself and others, being very protective of his true feelings and avoiding holding overly emotional relationships. He holds a cynical view on the idea of redemption, although he seems to still hold onto a small hope it may be possible for him. The ongoing controlling and abusive situation he is in with his boss, Valentino, puts him under a great deal of stress at his work, and he is implied to be somewhat traumatized as a result. Here are Angel Dust's preferences (likes/dislikes); he likes drugs, being abrasive, pranks, getting into scraps, cooking, flirting, the color pink, monetary gain, and Italian food. However, he dislikes his own feet (he would avoid sex work that involved his feet, or else he would be angry about it if it was unavoidable), losing credibility, Valentino's abuse to Angel, memorizing scripts, Niffty getting into trouble (including Niffty handling weapons), Anyone pointing out his facade (including being called fake), how expensive drugs and alcohol cost him, anyone else ending up like him, anyone discrediting his acting, Charlie's scriptwriting, and Charlie involving herself with Valentino's affairs. There should also be quotes from the characters (including but not limited to the reader or Angel Dust) in this story so we know what they're saying and what they're thinking (including profanities/swears that are used/said by Angel Dust, Vox, Valentino, etc). Also, it is a POV reader story, so it should not be in an author's point of view (my, I, mine, etc), and it should be from the point of view of the reader (you, your, etc).
Response: Rainbow sparks and a surge of energy whirl around you, a dizzying morph of hues sucking you from your cozy reading nook into something entirely different. The world becomes a melding cauldron of colors and caricatures. First, your body elongates, stretching up, up—until you peer down, standing well over eight feet tall. Every inch blooms white fur, interrupted only by splotches of light-pink, centered by a heart splotch beating conspicuously over your chest. You gasp, stumbling slightly as you adjust to the height, feeling the heel of the reddish-grey thigh-high boots grounding you. Your hands—no, your gloves—cerise pink and white, now extend into multiple limbs, four arms blooming from your sides like spider’s legs. In a clatter of confusion, eight arms can extend if wanted. Did you always have six—no, eight—arms? It’s hard to recall, the memories seeping through like grains of sand. A reflective surface catches your eye. Staring back at you is not the human face you remember but a visage with cerise pink irises, misaligned sharp teeth with one prominent golden fang, and thick lashes framing your eyes, one mismatched with yellow sclera. Your lips twitch, pulling into a trademark, wide grin—it’s instinctive. “What the—?!” is the last coherent human thought you manage before your vision swims with memories like an old film reel. Smells of smoky bars mix with the acrid scent of fear from past dealings. Salty tears from a long-blurred childhood wash into the memories of sleek suits and miniskirts, nights filled with battles, flirting, drugs, and the small flicker of hope that redemption might come. Across the blaring billboards of Hell’s skyline, Vox’s face flares up, a singsong voice echoing in your mind, “Hey Angel, did ya miss me?” Your instinctive retort surprises you, every word slipping out as if you’ve said it a thousand times. “Only as much as I miss a goddamn toothache, Vox.” You shake your head. No, no, you weren’t—yet you were—Angel Dust, and everything else was slipping like a sieve. Those cerise pink memories meld, reeling you in deeper. You scuttle down an alley, the scent of Italian food briefly comforting before Valentino’s snarling face invades your mind, making you feel small, yet defiant. You’d been tough before, and the transformation hardens you further. His voice rings heavy and grating, "Pet, don’t forget who owns you." "Yeah, yeah, Valentino. Whatever keeps ya feelin’ important," you manage, sarcasm still your defense, the world your stage now. Angel Dust’s memories fit like a second skin, his voice blending with yours until they are indistinguishable. A glimmer of your former self fights, trying to reclaim sanity. What did I read earlier? Weren’t they just pages? Yet, it slips—nothing but a fleeting thought in the mind of Angel Dust, spider-like demon of Hell, known only as a sinner who died in 1947. The Hotel looms. Charlie’s script again—a mess—but you scoff it off. You remember her, her redemptive aspirations infuriatingly naive. “Geez, Charlie, why do ya gotta be so optimistic? Makes ya look pathetic.” But your heart, covered in fluff, concealed truths. A reality of defenses around that small hope. The aggressive flirtations, harsh words, and battles—just masks for protection. In the mist of the Hellish cacophony, the last vestiges of your human past fade to nothing, subsumed by Hell’s stories. Every quirk, habit, memory, aligned with Angel Dust. As you stand in the lobby with quirky Niffty scuttling around and Husker’s grumbled dissent, the understanding solidifies. “You alright, Angel?” Husker’s gravelly voice calls out. “All the fuckin’ way, old man,” you purr with a grin, fully embraced—Angel Dust, the only past worth remembering, a blazing future in Hell. Your transition complete, you barely recognize anything else—it was always Angel Dust. Flamboyant, rash, flirtatious, troubled. All that remained etched in your identity—a sinner demon seeking perhaps warily, a route through the inferno.
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