Metamorphosis in Hell: Becoming Angel Dust
1 Points
It happened in a blink of an eye. One moment, you were mindlessly scrolling through your phone, reading up on favorite fan theories about the Hazbin Hotel series with a cup of coffee in hand. The next, an unexplainable tingle surged through every fiber of your being, like electricity dancing over your skin. You tried to move, to shout, but found yourself frozen, your pulse racing as the world around you started to shimmer and distort. Colors bled together, and the sharp edges of reality softened into something far more animated, almost whimsical.
Your vision was blurred, a kaleidoscope of hues spiraling around you. You could feel your clothes shifting against your skin, the textures transforming from familiar cotton to spandex and silk. Your heart pounded harder. A strange pressure came over your chest, a combined sensation of tightening and growing, like an expanding balloon ready to burst. Your sense of balance wavered as your height surged, and you felt an odd, fuzzy warmth spread over your skin.
Despite the overwhelming sensory overload, you tried to hold onto your consciousness. You were you. Just a regular person. But as your fingers stretched out in front of your face, panic flooded your mind—the once familiar digits had elongated, turning into multiple pink-dotted appendages, complete with sharp nails and pink linings. The world spun as you were lifted higher and higher, elongating your limbs until you found yourself at a daunting eight feet tall.
When the visual storm finally cleared, what you saw was not your world anymore. The dull shades of your room were replaced with an extravagant set, a far cry from the ordinary life you knew. You immediately recognized the grunge yet detailed aesthetic: The gaudy neon lights, the gothic embellishments, the Hellish decor—it was the world of Hazbin Hotel.
Panic clawed at your mind, but you tried to scream, “What the hell is happening?!”
But the voice that escaped your lips was not yours—it was higher, raspier—male. You reached up to touch your face. Where was your nose? Panic turned into a scream, sounding disturbingly familiar. Your chest heaved and you felt... padding? Not quite; it was fur, fluffy and forming an almost breast-like protrusion shielded by a tight blazer.
A memory—no, a flood of memories—crashed through your mind, dissolving your own. The laughter of old-time streetwalkers, the smoky haze of burlesque clubs, sharp, dismissive insults thrown your way—no, not yours—Angel Dust’s memories. Everything human about you was being scrubbed away. A grounded, regular life in your world faded, replaced by seedy Hellish nightlife. You fought, scratching to hold onto any shred of the real you, but the tide of Angel's memories was too wide, too deep.
“No—no—I’m... not...” you stammered, but the words twisted into sarcasm.
“Oh, come on, babe! It's your time to shine!” Your lips parted in a sharp-toothed grin. “Ain’t nobody here lookin’ better than Angel Dust!” The voice boomed with a practiced New York accent, its weight setting into your vocal chords as if it had always been there.
You felt your human spirit slipping away, the essence of Angel Dust wrestling free from the last of your resistances. The facade—brash, vulgar, charismatic—wrapped around your psyche like a second skin. Slowly, but surely, you forgot about ever having been anyone else.
"Hey, Angie, got another job for ya," Valentino's slithering voice interjected into your spiral. "Do it right this time."
Rolling all four eyes, you replied flippantly, "Yeah, Val. Don’t get your panties in a twist. I got it.” You hated (but also couldn’t help) the purring lilt in your voice.
You flirted with bystanders, winking at some demonic patrons and making lewd comments as you strutted through the grunge-laden streets you’d always known. You tossed your silken, fluffy hair back. The transformation was complete; the simple, human you had vanished into the decadent haze of Angel Dust's life.
"Jeez, you’d think you could afford better shoes!" you laughed, mocking someone who tripped nearby. “Can’t all be as fabulous as me!"
Farther down the street, Vox sneered, flicking a cigarette aside. "Hard to believe they let trash like you run 'round here so free."
You shot back, "Funny comin' from a walking TV screen who can't even get past the static channels!"
And amidst the snicker, you sighed internally. Somewhere, in the deepest recesses of your now-angelic mind, a small, abandoned echo of the person you used to be whispered against the roaring tide of what you'd become—Angel Dust, the flippant, brash, tall, spider-like demon. But that whisper dwindled into nothingness, drowned by the overwhelming urgency of surviving another day in the abyss of Hazbin Hotel.
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 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 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: It happened in a blink of an eye. One moment, you were mindlessly scrolling through your phone, reading up on favorite fan theories about the Hazbin Hotel series with a cup of coffee in hand. The next, an unexplainable tingle surged through every fiber of your being, like electricity dancing over your skin. You tried to move, to shout, but found yourself frozen, your pulse racing as the world around you started to shimmer and distort. Colors bled together, and the sharp edges of reality softened into something far more animated, almost whimsical. Your vision was blurred, a kaleidoscope of hues spiraling around you. You could feel your clothes shifting against your skin, the textures transforming from familiar cotton to spandex and silk. Your heart pounded harder. A strange pressure came over your chest, a combined sensation of tightening and growing, like an expanding balloon ready to burst. Your sense of balance wavered as your height surged, and you felt an odd, fuzzy warmth spread over your skin. Despite the overwhelming sensory overload, you tried to hold onto your consciousness. You were you. Just a regular person. But as your fingers stretched out in front of your face, panic flooded your mind—the once familiar digits had elongated, turning into multiple pink-dotted appendages, complete with sharp nails and pink linings. The world spun as you were lifted higher and higher, elongating your limbs until you found yourself at a daunting eight feet tall. When the visual storm finally cleared, what you saw was not your world anymore. The dull shades of your room were replaced with an extravagant set, a far cry from the ordinary life you knew. You immediately recognized the grunge yet detailed aesthetic: The gaudy neon lights, the gothic embellishments, the Hellish decor—it was the world of Hazbin Hotel. Panic clawed at your mind, but you tried to scream, “What the hell is happening?!” But the voice that escaped your lips was not yours—it was higher, raspier—male. You reached up to touch your face. Where was your nose? Panic turned into a scream, sounding disturbingly familiar. Your chest heaved and you felt... padding? Not quite; it was fur, fluffy and forming an almost breast-like protrusion shielded by a tight blazer. A memory—no, a flood of memories—crashed through your mind, dissolving your own. The laughter of old-time streetwalkers, the smoky haze of burlesque clubs, sharp, dismissive insults thrown your way—no, not yours—Angel Dust’s memories. Everything human about you was being scrubbed away. A grounded, regular life in your world faded, replaced by seedy Hellish nightlife. You fought, scratching to hold onto any shred of the real you, but the tide of Angel's memories was too wide, too deep. “No—no—I’m... not...” you stammered, but the words twisted into sarcasm. “Oh, come on, babe! It's your time to shine!” Your lips parted in a sharp-toothed grin. “Ain’t nobody here lookin’ better than Angel Dust!” The voice boomed with a practiced New York accent, its weight setting into your vocal chords as if it had always been there. You felt your human spirit slipping away, the essence of Angel Dust wrestling free from the last of your resistances. The facade—brash, vulgar, charismatic—wrapped around your psyche like a second skin. Slowly, but surely, you forgot about ever having been anyone else. "Hey, Angie, got another job for ya," Valentino's slithering voice interjected into your spiral. "Do it right this time." Rolling all four eyes, you replied flippantly, "Yeah, Val. Don’t get your panties in a twist. I got it.” You hated (but also couldn’t help) the purring lilt in your voice. You flirted with bystanders, winking at some demonic patrons and making lewd comments as you strutted through the grunge-laden streets you’d always known. You tossed your silken, fluffy hair back. The transformation was complete; the simple, human you had vanished into the decadent haze of Angel Dust's life. "Jeez, you’d think you could afford better shoes!" you laughed, mocking someone who tripped nearby. “Can’t all be as fabulous as me!" Farther down the street, Vox sneered, flicking a cigarette aside. "Hard to believe they let trash like you run 'round here so free." You shot back, "Funny comin' from a walking TV screen who can't even get past the static channels!" And amidst the snicker, you sighed internally. Somewhere, in the deepest recesses of your now-angelic mind, a small, abandoned echo of the person you used to be whispered against the roaring tide of what you'd become—Angel Dust, the flippant, brash, tall, spider-like demon. But that whisper dwindled into nothingness, drowned by the overwhelming urgency of surviving another day in the abyss of Hazbin Hotel.
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