You settle into your armchair, flipping open the pages of your latest fantasy read. The room around you blurs out, the black-and-white lines of text luring you into the world within. Suddenly, an intense vertigo sets in, and you feel an invisible force tugging at your body. Gasping, you close your eyes tightly, clutching the book so hard your knuckles turn white.
The sensation crescendos, and a pulse of warmth ripples through you, shifting your senses entirely. You’re no longer in your mundane room. Opening your eyes, you behold a twisted, vibrant world—a place that could only be the Hazbin Hotel universe. Everything around you crackles with an animated fluidity, colors exaggerated and lines thick.
“Wha—what the hell?!” Your voice is high-pitched, grating against your eardrums in a way you've never heard before. You try to swallow down your panic, but something feels... different. The texture of your skin isn't right—it feels furry, and wrong in such a peculiar manner.
Looking down, you barely recognize your own body. Gone are your familiar limbs and clothes; instead, you see slender arms, too many arms, wrapped in sleek gloves and a cerise pink color that borders on ridiculous. You feel a distinctive tightness around your chest, creating curves that weren’t there moments ago.
Grabbing a nearby shattered mirror, you see Angel Dust staring back—a demon blending unsettling whiteness with light-pink accents, eyelashes thick and overly dramatic. Your reflection shows a wide mouth full of pointed teeth, with a single golden fang glinting under the neon lights.
It’s impossible. How could your identity—human, grounded—be replaced by such a flamboyant creature? Panic surges within you like a tidal wave, threatening to drown your sanity. You brace yourself against a charred wall, but the shock intensifies as your memories begin to collide, churn, and transform.
You try to remember your own name, but it evaporates like smoke in the twisted air. Strangely, memories that aren't your own push their way into your consciousness, tales of being a man in 1947, dying and being reborn into this grotesque form. You fight it, gripping with what remains of your human self, but the memories of Angel Dust overwhelm you.
"Why the fuck am I thinking about 1947?!" you scream, but the voice is no longer yours. It’s Angel Dust’s, snarky and brash. The more you fight, the stronger the memories of being a spider-like demon get. You remember Valentino’s controlling grip on your life, the never-ending cycle of violence and flamboyance. Angel’s crude humor, flirtatious demeanor, and penchant for trouble meld into your being, smothering your original self.
Two familiar voices – Val and Vox – echo in the hallway. "Hey, Angel baby! Lookin' sharp as always. Don't you have some work to get your ass in gear for?" Valentino chides, with a sadistic glee in his eyes as his red feathers ruffle nastily.
You find your lips curling into a sardonic smile of their own accord. "Ah, fuck you, Val. You just know I'm too pretty to ignore," you retort, the words rolling off your tongue like a script you’ve always known by heart.
"Move it, shithead. We ain’t got all night," Vox says, annoyed but with a slight crack of amusement in his glitchy voice.
You saunter past them, hips swaying with exaggerated flair. A small part of you screams internally, but it’s drowned out. New instincts take over—the urge to flirt, to perform, to shield yourself with sarcasm.
Deep inside, hidden beneath layers of new identity and memories, the last fragment of your original self flickers like a dying candle. The world of Hazbin Hotel matters more; the vibrant hellscape you navigate feels just right. It’s your domain, where you belong, where Angel Dust rules with sharp wit and sharper teeth.
The small hope for redemption lingers, a thin thread waiting to be snapped or nurtured. You—no, Angel Dust—will continue his complex dance through this plane, partial to jokes and jabs, all while concealing the deeply hidden scars of a long-lost past.
This story was generated by user LanHikari 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.
Prompt: Write a POV transformation story of a human reader instantly turning into Angel Dust (from the 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 a the reader's average 5.7-6 foot height to Angel Dust's 8 foot height), 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 and completely unaware 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 (instead the areas where the nose and ears should be are instead flat-yet-furry surfaces), 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 (fuck, shit, bitch, damn, dick, etc) 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: You settle into your armchair, flipping open the pages of your latest fantasy read. The room around you blurs out, the black-and-white lines of text luring you into the world within. Suddenly, an intense vertigo sets in, and you feel an invisible force tugging at your body. Gasping, you close your eyes tightly, clutching the book so hard your knuckles turn white. The sensation crescendos, and a pulse of warmth ripples through you, shifting your senses entirely. You’re no longer in your mundane room. Opening your eyes, you behold a twisted, vibrant world—a place that could only be the Hazbin Hotel universe. Everything around you crackles with an animated fluidity, colors exaggerated and lines thick. “Wha—what the hell?!” Your voice is high-pitched, grating against your eardrums in a way you've never heard before. You try to swallow down your panic, but something feels... different. The texture of your skin isn't right—it feels furry, and wrong in such a peculiar manner. Looking down, you barely recognize your own body. Gone are your familiar limbs and clothes; instead, you see slender arms, too many arms, wrapped in sleek gloves and a cerise pink color that borders on ridiculous. You feel a distinctive tightness around your chest, creating curves that weren’t there moments ago. Grabbing a nearby shattered mirror, you see Angel Dust staring back—a demon blending unsettling whiteness with light-pink accents, eyelashes thick and overly dramatic. Your reflection shows a wide mouth full of pointed teeth, with a single golden fang glinting under the neon lights. It’s impossible. How could your identity—human, grounded—be replaced by such a flamboyant creature? Panic surges within you like a tidal wave, threatening to drown your sanity. You brace yourself against a charred wall, but the shock intensifies as your memories begin to collide, churn, and transform. You try to remember your own name, but it evaporates like smoke in the twisted air. Strangely, memories that aren't your own push their way into your consciousness, tales of being a man in 1947, dying and being reborn into this grotesque form. You fight it, gripping with what remains of your human self, but the memories of Angel Dust overwhelm you. "Why the fuck am I thinking about 1947?!" you scream, but the voice is no longer yours. It’s Angel Dust’s, snarky and brash. The more you fight, the stronger the memories of being a spider-like demon get. You remember Valentino’s controlling grip on your life, the never-ending cycle of violence and flamboyance. Angel’s crude humor, flirtatious demeanor, and penchant for trouble meld into your being, smothering your original self. Two familiar voices – Val and Vox – echo in the hallway. "Hey, Angel baby! Lookin' sharp as always. Don't you have some work to get your ass in gear for?" Valentino chides, with a sadistic glee in his eyes as his red feathers ruffle nastily. You find your lips curling into a sardonic smile of their own accord. "Ah, fuck you, Val. You just know I'm too pretty to ignore," you retort, the words rolling off your tongue like a script you’ve always known by heart. "Move it, shithead. We ain’t got all night," Vox says, annoyed but with a slight crack of amusement in his glitchy voice. You saunter past them, hips swaying with exaggerated flair. A small part of you screams internally, but it’s drowned out. New instincts take over—the urge to flirt, to perform, to shield yourself with sarcasm. Deep inside, hidden beneath layers of new identity and memories, the last fragment of your original self flickers like a dying candle. The world of Hazbin Hotel matters more; the vibrant hellscape you navigate feels just right. It’s your domain, where you belong, where Angel Dust rules with sharp wit and sharper teeth. The small hope for redemption lingers, a thin thread waiting to be snapped or nurtured. You—no, Angel Dust—will continue his complex dance through this plane, partial to jokes and jabs, all while concealing the deeply hidden scars of a long-lost past.
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