You're sitting at your desk, the screen in front of you buzzing with a lively conversation in your favorite chatroom. You've just typed out a response when suddenly, a strange sensation envelops you. Shadows dance and swirl around your vision, the world warping like a VHS tape gone awry. The colors and shapes become exaggerated, jagged, like something out of a twisted cartoon.
Your heart pounds in your chest as the change begins. Your skin tingles with a thousand pinpricks, quickly transitioning from soft human flesh to fluffy white fur dashed with light pink splotches. Panic sets in when your fingers stretch out unnaturally, shrinking to four digits each. The sight of pointed claws tipping each digit causes a sickly thrill of horror in your belly. Your once average height rises quickly to an ungainly 8 feet, and the room around you bends and shrinks to match your new perspective.
Your eyes meet their reflection in the monitor, the pupils shrinking to cerise-pink dots framed by exaggerated lashes and mismatched sclera – one light yellow, the other dark. Terror twists inside you at the sight of your new golden fang gleaming from a gaping, too wide grin filled with sharp teeth. The allure of your new New York accent spilling from your lips now creates a sense of alienation from the person you thought you were.
Thin tendrils of memory flood in like a dam unbuckled. Gone is the mundane life of the daily grind, replaced with filmy images of 1947, of dying as a man, waking up as the flamboyant, devil-may-care spider-demon known as Angel Dust. You struggle to hold onto your human self, to grasp at the brittle remnants of who you were, but the harder you try, the slipperier your original identity becomes.
"Hey, dollface, what's the matter? You look like you've seen a fuckin' ghost!" The voice is yours, but not yours – Angel Dust's rich, flirtatious tone making itself at home in your vocal cords. Panic sharpens your thoughts for a moment, but then they are swamped by new, vividly detailed memories of your infernal existence.
Outfit changes swirl about your form, tight-fitted striped suit-blazer with intricate detailing, snug miniskirt, and thigh-high heeled boots snapping and securing themselves into place. You stand in front of a mirror, recognizing the iconic bowtie and black choker settling against fluffy fur that shaped themselves provocatively. Meaningless vestiges of drab human clothes are replaced by these garish, crimson-ridden trappings.
"No, no! Fight it," you think, but your determination frays as the memories solidify. You're standing in Hell's smog-choked streets. The transition leaves the sterile familiarity of your old world behind, traded for the chaotic, vibrant depths of Hell, rife with strife and excess. People – well, demons – rush past, caught up in their depraved tasks, the landscape a perpetual fray where the twisted and the broken thrive.
Your struggles quiet as Angel's personality takes over. Brash, confident, and unfazed, you – Angel now – admire the reflection with a prideful smirk.
"Ready for your close-up, sweetheart?" Vox's mechanical, dissonant voice crackles from a billboard. You scoff dismissively.
"Yeah, yeah, don’t get your wires in a knot, Buzz Lightyear."
Your memories assert that Vox is a powerful demon but you're sure that you can hold your ground, just as you've always believed.
Your musings come to an abrupt halt as Valentino brushes by, his imposing figure casting a long shadow over your height. The unease triggered by his presence, buried deep in newfound memories, pulses sharply.
"Angel, darling," Valentino's voice drips with serpentine charm, causing a shudder you mask with an aggressive smirk, "Always a delight to see you working...hard."
You narrow your eyes, masking fear with sarcasm. "Always a pleasure, Val. Keepin' my favorite pimp in check."
Valentino's smile sharpens, a menacing gleam in his gaze before he saunters off, leaving a trail of unease.
You resume walking your own twisted path, flipping your hair confidently and relishing in the provocative stares. Yet, deep within your mind, a tiny vestige of your original self lingers, hidden beneath the exaggerated bravado and the carnal chaos. But for now, the overwhelming truth is that you are Angel Dust – burlesque, seductive, hauntingly beautiful, profoundly broken, and unapologetically you.
Crude jokes and flashy, biting quips draw more attention, keeping prying eyes away from the fragile layer beneath the surface. You’re Angel Dust now, and you’ll embrace the good and bad that comes with the territory, with a sigh, knowing there's more underneath it all than even you want to see.
This story was generated by user DylanVsFizzarolli5 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 the 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 human death, and has since been in Hell afterwards and becoming a popular adults film actor (such as for sex films, etc)). 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. He also has four fingers (like all Hazbin Hotel and Helluva Boss characters), unlike real world humans. 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 in this story (including quotes from the reader) so we know what they are saying and what they are thinking (including profanities/swears/strong language/bad language, such as "fuck", "shit", "bitch", and many others that are used/said by Angel Dust, Vox, Valentino, etc, but the human reader doesn't use profanities/swears unlike Angel Dust, who the human reader transforms into). 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're sitting at your desk, the screen in front of you buzzing with a lively conversation in your favorite chatroom. You've just typed out a response when suddenly, a strange sensation envelops you. Shadows dance and swirl around your vision, the world warping like a VHS tape gone awry. The colors and shapes become exaggerated, jagged, like something out of a twisted cartoon. Your heart pounds in your chest as the change begins. Your skin tingles with a thousand pinpricks, quickly transitioning from soft human flesh to fluffy white fur dashed with light pink splotches. Panic sets in when your fingers stretch out unnaturally, shrinking to four digits each. The sight of pointed claws tipping each digit causes a sickly thrill of horror in your belly. Your once average height rises quickly to an ungainly 8 feet, and the room around you bends and shrinks to match your new perspective. Your eyes meet their reflection in the monitor, the pupils shrinking to cerise-pink dots framed by exaggerated lashes and mismatched sclera – one light yellow, the other dark. Terror twists inside you at the sight of your new golden fang gleaming from a gaping, too wide grin filled with sharp teeth. The allure of your new New York accent spilling from your lips now creates a sense of alienation from the person you thought you were. Thin tendrils of memory flood in like a dam unbuckled. Gone is the mundane life of the daily grind, replaced with filmy images of 1947, of dying as a man, waking up as the flamboyant, devil-may-care spider-demon known as Angel Dust. You struggle to hold onto your human self, to grasp at the brittle remnants of who you were, but the harder you try, the slipperier your original identity becomes. "Hey, dollface, what's the matter? You look like you've seen a fuckin' ghost!" The voice is yours, but not yours – Angel Dust's rich, flirtatious tone making itself at home in your vocal cords. Panic sharpens your thoughts for a moment, but then they are swamped by new, vividly detailed memories of your infernal existence. Outfit changes swirl about your form, tight-fitted striped suit-blazer with intricate detailing, snug miniskirt, and thigh-high heeled boots snapping and securing themselves into place. You stand in front of a mirror, recognizing the iconic bowtie and black choker settling against fluffy fur that shaped themselves provocatively. Meaningless vestiges of drab human clothes are replaced by these garish, crimson-ridden trappings. "No, no! Fight it," you think, but your determination frays as the memories solidify. You're standing in Hell's smog-choked streets. The transition leaves the sterile familiarity of your old world behind, traded for the chaotic, vibrant depths of Hell, rife with strife and excess. People – well, demons – rush past, caught up in their depraved tasks, the landscape a perpetual fray where the twisted and the broken thrive. Your struggles quiet as Angel's personality takes over. Brash, confident, and unfazed, you – Angel now – admire the reflection with a prideful smirk. "Ready for your close-up, sweetheart?" Vox's mechanical, dissonant voice crackles from a billboard. You scoff dismissively. "Yeah, yeah, don’t get your wires in a knot, Buzz Lightyear." Your memories assert that Vox is a powerful demon but you're sure that you can hold your ground, just as you've always believed. Your musings come to an abrupt halt as Valentino brushes by, his imposing figure casting a long shadow over your height. The unease triggered by his presence, buried deep in newfound memories, pulses sharply. "Angel, darling," Valentino's voice drips with serpentine charm, causing a shudder you mask with an aggressive smirk, "Always a delight to see you working...hard." You narrow your eyes, masking fear with sarcasm. "Always a pleasure, Val. Keepin' my favorite pimp in check." Valentino's smile sharpens, a menacing gleam in his gaze before he saunters off, leaving a trail of unease. You resume walking your own twisted path, flipping your hair confidently and relishing in the provocative stares. Yet, deep within your mind, a tiny vestige of your original self lingers, hidden beneath the exaggerated bravado and the carnal chaos. But for now, the overwhelming truth is that you are Angel Dust – burlesque, seductive, hauntingly beautiful, profoundly broken, and unapologetically you. Crude jokes and flashy, biting quips draw more attention, keeping prying eyes away from the fragile layer beneath the surface. You’re Angel Dust now, and you’ll embrace the good and bad that comes with the territory, with a sigh, knowing there's more underneath it all than even you want to see.
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