You were just minding your own business, going about your day like any other. Suddenly, the world around you starts to warp and twist, as though reality itself is unraveling. Your vision blurs, colors shift to an intense, almost neon palette, and everything seems to be filtered through a surreal, vibrant lens. You blink and rub your eyes, but it doesn't help. The world continues to shift, morphing into what you recognize as Pentagram City, a locale from the adults cartoon/animated series, "Hazbin Hotel."
"What the hell…?" you whisper, your voice trembling with confusion. You try to take a step, but your body feels strange. Your height begins to stretch, limbs elongating painfully as your clothes rip and tear, only to be replaced by something tight and unfamiliar.
You glance down and see your hands morphing into long, spindly digits with four fingers each. Your skin becomes a sleek fur, white with splashes of light-pink over it. You try to scream, but even your voice betrays you, growing higher, more nasally, with a distinct New York twang.
"Fuck! This can't be happening!" The words come out instinctively before you even realize you're saying them. Your panic rises as you feel your body continue to transform. You're now about eight feet tall, with a long torso and legs that feel alien to you, clad in heeled boots that somehow don't trip you up.
Your clothes have changed into a long light pink suit-blazer with horizontal white stripes, a reddish-grey miniskirt, and long thigh-high heeled boots. A reddish-grey bowtie with a cerise pink center and a black choker suddenly cause you to feel overdressed and uncomfortable. You touch your chest only to feel fluffy fur beneath your blazer, pushed up to look like breasts. It makes no sense.
"No, no, no," you mumble, clutching your head as it starts to ache. Your memories begin to blur and shift. Images flash before your eyes—drug overdoses, a twin sister named Molly, a life entwined with the Italian mob in New York City, but these are not your memories.
"Come on, snap out of it!" You think desperately, trying to hold onto your sense of self. But the harder you try, the more the new memories seep in, filling every crevice of your mind. You remember dying in 1947 and entering Hell, becoming a demon known as Angel Dust, a name that now feels strangely right, even comforting.
Personalities you've never recognized sneak into your consciousness—brash, sarcastic, with quick responses laced with bad language. You feel your old self trying to fight back, pleading, "Don't forget yourself! This isn't real!" But the voice in your head cuts through like a knife.
"This is who you are, Anthony. You've always been this way. The ordinary life you remember was just a daydream. You’ve been Angel Dust since the day you died, signing your soul to Valentino."
"Fuck, no!" you yell, gripping your head in agony. But the struggle feels useless. Every time you resist, the memories swallow you more. You recall vividly your rise in Hell, becoming a popular adult film actor, your fame, your love for drugs, and the complicated ties you now have.
"Face it, you fucking love it," the voice tempts you. And you start to believe it—the crass humor, the brashness, and the myriad of porn scenes you've acted in. It all fits too perfectly, like missing pieces you never knew were gone. Your past self fades away into an insignificant blur.
Another voice outside, familiar yet unremembered, yells, "Angel! Get your ass over here. Valentino ain't waitin'!"
You instinctively respond, "Alright, alright, keep your panties on, 'cause I won't be!" You laugh at your own dirty joke, the sound bubbling out naturally. You hardly recognize the person you were just moments ago; it's all slipping away.
You know now you’re Angel Dust. Always have been. You strut forward, every step in those heeled boots now second nature, embracing the chaotic, neon-tinged life of Pentagram City with sarcasm and a gay flourish.
"Fuck, it's good to be home," you think, as the last shreds of your former self dissolve into the ether.
This story was generated by user DylanVsFizzarolli6 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 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 (the reader's clothes instantly changes into Angel Dust's outfit), 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), voice change (the reader's voice changes into Angel Dust's voice), 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 instead he remembers 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). Here is Angel Dust's personality; he 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, popsicles, 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 him, 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. Here is Angel Dust's history (according to the Hazbin Hotel series); Anthony was born (when he was a human) on April 1st alongside his twin sister, Molly, in the early 20th century. He came from an Italian mob family in New York City. He died in his early-mid 30s in 1947 following a drug overdose. Upon entering Hell as a sinner demon, Anthony quickly became involved in sex work, cutting ties with his family's mob-related activities, and adopted the name "Angel Dust". He eventually met and signed a contract with Valentino. This gave Valentino ownership of Angel's soul and put him under his employment at his porn studio, which allowed Angel to eventually become one of the biggest adult film superstars in Hell. Continuing to drown out his world with narcotics and sex along with his twisted sense of humor, Angel followed a path of self-destruction to cope and in the hope that if he ruined himself enough Valentino would no longer want him as "his favorite toy" and release him from their contract. Angel at some point starred in a kidnapping BDSM film which won him a "Sex-x-xi" award over another actress, Tiffany Titfucker. At some point, Angel Dust was gifted a demon pig named Fat Nuggets from Valentino. The story is that the reader is minding his/her business, but then the world around him/her warps/changes into Pentagram City, located in the Pride Ring of Hell, as depicted in the adults cartoon/animated series "Hazbin Hotel" before his/her body started to change. After the reader (now truly a male if the reader was a female before the change) had fully transformed, he is confused, but then his mind becomes cloudy/foggy/fuzzy as he starts losing his previous personality and gaining a new personality (he's scared of his personality being replaced), making him homosexual, brash, and sarcastic, with a quick, sharp wit, often with bad/strong language (including, but not limited to f-bomb words), with these personality traits forcing into him against his will, however they become natural as if part of him. His memories are also being replaced with those of Angel Dust's, making him terrified of losing himself, as he starts remembering everything about Angel Dust's history, preferences, etc. During his horror, a voice tells him that this is who he really is and that he was never just a mundane person, telling him that he had always been Anthony (now named Angel Dust after arriving in Hell as a sinner demon), as well as always having been gay and loving sex, as well as loving drugs, being abrasive, pranks, getting into scraps, cooking, flirting, popsicles, the color pink, monetary gain, and Italian food, despite the reader's best efforts on fighting off the mind/mental changes (he's scared of losing his personality and memories, so he tells himself to not forget about himself). The voice then tells the reader that the life he remembers was not real (it was just a daydream he got lost in) and it tells/encourages the reader to remember who he really is (Angel Dust) and the reader starts to believe and trust the voice inside his head, and he realizes (or rather knows) that he is indeed Angel Dust and he was never someone who was mundane (which he realized/knew was only a strange daydream he just had; that was impossible for him to have been human just moments ago, since he died in 1947 and has been a sinner demon since then, so he questions on why he dreamt that so he quickly forgets all about that ever occurring and continues his afterlife). 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 were just minding your own business, going about your day like any other. Suddenly, the world around you starts to warp and twist, as though reality itself is unraveling. Your vision blurs, colors shift to an intense, almost neon palette, and everything seems to be filtered through a surreal, vibrant lens. You blink and rub your eyes, but it doesn't help. The world continues to shift, morphing into what you recognize as Pentagram City, a locale from the adults cartoon/animated series, "Hazbin Hotel." "What the hell…?" you whisper, your voice trembling with confusion. You try to take a step, but your body feels strange. Your height begins to stretch, limbs elongating painfully as your clothes rip and tear, only to be replaced by something tight and unfamiliar. You glance down and see your hands morphing into long, spindly digits with four fingers each. Your skin becomes a sleek fur, white with splashes of light-pink over it. You try to scream, but even your voice betrays you, growing higher, more nasally, with a distinct New York twang. "Fuck! This can't be happening!" The words come out instinctively before you even realize you're saying them. Your panic rises as you feel your body continue to transform. You're now about eight feet tall, with a long torso and legs that feel alien to you, clad in heeled boots that somehow don't trip you up. Your clothes have changed into a long light pink suit-blazer with horizontal white stripes, a reddish-grey miniskirt, and long thigh-high heeled boots. A reddish-grey bowtie with a cerise pink center and a black choker suddenly cause you to feel overdressed and uncomfortable. You touch your chest only to feel fluffy fur beneath your blazer, pushed up to look like breasts. It makes no sense. "No, no, no," you mumble, clutching your head as it starts to ache. Your memories begin to blur and shift. Images flash before your eyes—drug overdoses, a twin sister named Molly, a life entwined with the Italian mob in New York City, but these are not your memories. "Come on, snap out of it!" You think desperately, trying to hold onto your sense of self. But the harder you try, the more the new memories seep in, filling every crevice of your mind. You remember dying in 1947 and entering Hell, becoming a demon known as Angel Dust, a name that now feels strangely right, even comforting. Personalities you've never recognized sneak into your consciousness—brash, sarcastic, with quick responses laced with bad language. You feel your old self trying to fight back, pleading, "Don't forget yourself! This isn't real!" But the voice in your head cuts through like a knife. "This is who you are, Angel Dust. You've always been this way. The ordinary life you remember was just a daydream. You’ve been Anthony since the day you died, signing your soul to Valentino." "Fuck, no!" you yell, gripping your head in agony. But the struggle feels useless. Every time you resist, the memories swallow you more. You recall vividly your rise in Hell, becoming a popular adult film actor, your fame, your love for drugs, and the complicated ties you now have. "Face it, you fucking love it," the voice tempts you. And you start to believe it—the crass humor, the brashness, and the myriad of porn scenes you've acted in. It all fits too perfectly, like missing pieces you never knew were gone. Your past self fades away into an insignificant blur. Another voice outside, familiar yet unremembered, yells, "Angel! Get your ass over here. Valentino ain't waitin'!" You instinctively respond, "Alright, alright, keep your panties on, 'cause I won't be!" You laugh at your own dirty joke, the sound bubbling out naturally. You hardly recognize the person you were just moments ago; it's all slipping away. You know now you’re Angel Dust. Always have been. You strut forward, every step in those heeled boots now second nature, embracing the chaotic, neon-tinged life of Pentagram City with sarcasm and a gay flourish. "Fuck, it's good to be home," you think, as the last shreds of your former self dissolve into the ether.
AI Prompts: 1
Post your own comment: