Surreal Sins: Transformation into Angel Dust
2 Points
The dim light seeps through your bedroom curtains, giving you a false sense of tranquility. You’re absentmindedly reading a comic book, unaware of the chaotic transformation about to engulf you. One moment you’re flipping a page, and the next, a flash of painfully bright light envelops everything around you, pulling you into a surreal, bewildering vortex.
The room around you begins to swirl and distort, colors bleeding into one another like melting crayons. Your heart races, pounding in your chest as you try to comprehend what’s happening. Panic flares as you feel an uncontrollable force gripping your body, reshaping it with invisible, merciless hands.
As the light subsides, you blink, trying to clear your vision. But the world solidifies not as your familiar room, but into the intricate, colorful chaos of Hell, straight from the Hazbin Hotel series. Cartoonishly styled buildings twist and bend in impossible ways, and the air is filled with an oddly palpable sense of sin and madness.
Your body feels wrong—alien yet disturbingly right. You feel a strange tug at your skin as fur sprouts, soft yet bristling white, with patches of light pink spreading like an invading blush. Your perspective shifts as you grow taller and taller, finally stopping at a staggering eight feet. Your limbs feel longer, more coordinated but palpably foreign.
A glance down at yourself reveals your transformation. A gasp escapes your new wide mouth as you see slender, elongated legs encased in thigh-high heeled boots. Your hands—no, claws—twitch, feeling the constraints of slick cerise pink gloves. The heart pattern on your chest catches your eye, pulling a shiver down your spine.
Desperately, you run your hands—four of them now—through your voluminous, fluffy hair, finding it impossible to recognize yourself. You open your mouth to scream, but what comes out shocks you further, "What fuckin' happened to me?"
Your voice is eerily high-pitched, laced with a seductive New York accent, and utterly not your own. There's a sharpness, a flippant, sarcastic lilt in it that echoes in your head. You try to think of your name, your past, but it’s already slipping through your fingers like sand.
Memories hit you like a freight train—filming seedy adult films, the corrupt dealings with Valentino, the bitter sweetness of drugs masking trauma. You remember a human life in 1947, full of vice and sin until it ended abruptly. The resistance within you weakens as Angel Dust's memories overwhelm your own, flooding every corner of your mind.
“Ya lookin’ good there, sweet cheeks. Ready for another round on camera?” comes a sly, oily voice. Valentino's smirking face leers at you, dragging you back into your newly cemented reality.
You struggle to hold onto the fragments of your old self, but each attempt to recall your real name, your former life, is met with the crushing wave of Angel Dust's consciousness. You hate the vulnerability, and quick as that, the flippant, callous persona of Angel shatters your resistance like glass.
“That’s right, Val, I’ve got plenty left in me for ya,” you reply with a playful sneer, almost involuntarily. Valentino laughs, a sound that both invigorates and grates against your deeply hidden hesitation.
Trying to grasp onto a last vestige of free will, you think about your favorite foods, hobbies… But all that comes to mind now is the bitter taste of drugs, the caustic sound of raunchy jokes, and the bite of Valentino’s control.
As you strut into the heart of this cartoonized Hell, your high heels clicking against the distorted pavement, the last shreds of your former life dissolve into oblivion. All that remains is Angel Dust—the sassy, sarcastic, flamboyantly abrasive demon who now wholly occupies your once human life.
“Fuck this sideways, I need a hit already,” you mutter to yourself, the craving embedding itself like a gnawing hunger. There’s no escape, no going back. With every step you take, memories of your past life dissolve entirely.
Hell has a new ruler of chaos, and your transformation is complete.
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.
AI Prompts
Prompt: Write the 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: The dim light seeps through your bedroom curtains, giving you a false sense of tranquility. You’re absentmindedly reading a comic book, unaware of the chaotic transformation about to engulf you. One moment you’re flipping a page, and the next, a flash of painfully bright light envelops everything around you, pulling you into a surreal, bewildering vortex. The room around you begins to swirl and distort, colors bleeding into one another like melting crayons. Your heart races, pounding in your chest as you try to comprehend what’s happening. Panic flares as you feel an uncontrollable force gripping your body, reshaping it with invisible, merciless hands. As the light subsides, you blink, trying to clear your vision. But the world solidifies not as your familiar room, but into the intricate, colorful chaos of Hell, straight from the Hazbin Hotel series. Cartoonishly styled buildings twist and bend in impossible ways, and the air is filled with an oddly palpable sense of sin and madness. Your body feels wrong—alien yet disturbingly right. You feel a strange tug at your skin as fur sprouts, soft yet bristling white, with patches of light pink spreading like an invading blush. Your perspective shifts as you grow taller and taller, finally stopping at a staggering eight feet. Your limbs feel longer, more coordinated but palpably foreign. A glance down at yourself reveals your transformation. A gasp escapes your new wide mouth as you see slender, elongated legs encased in thigh-high heeled boots. Your hands—no, claws—twitch, feeling the constraints of slick cerise pink gloves. The heart pattern on your chest catches your eye, pulling a shiver down your spine. Desperately, you run your hands—four of them now—through your voluminous, fluffy hair, finding it impossible to recognize yourself. You open your mouth to scream, but what comes out shocks you further, "What fuckin' happened to me?" Your voice is eerily high-pitched, laced with a seductive New York accent, and utterly not your own. There's a sharpness, a flippant, sarcastic lilt in it that echoes in your head. You try to think of your name, your past, but it’s already slipping through your fingers like sand. Memories hit you like a freight train—filming seedy adult films, the corrupt dealings with Valentino, the bitter sweetness of drugs masking trauma. You remember a human life in 1947, full of vice and sin until it ended abruptly. The resistance within you weakens as Angel Dust's memories overwhelm your own, flooding every corner of your mind. “Ya lookin’ good there, sweet cheeks. Ready for another round on camera?” comes a sly, oily voice. Valentino's smirking face leers at you, dragging you back into your newly cemented reality. You struggle to hold onto the fragments of your old self, but each attempt to recall your real name, your former life, is met with the crushing wave of Angel Dust's consciousness. You hate the vulnerability, and quick as that, the flippant, callous persona of Angel shatters your resistance like glass. “That’s right, Val, I’ve got plenty left in me for ya,” you reply with a playful sneer, almost involuntarily. Valentino laughs, a sound that both invigorates and grates against your deeply hidden hesitation. Trying to grasp onto a last vestige of free will, you think about your favorite foods, hobbies… But all that comes to mind now is the bitter taste of drugs, the caustic sound of raunchy jokes, and the bite of Valentino’s control. As you strut into the heart of this cartoonized Hell, your high heels clicking against the distorted pavement, the last shreds of your former life dissolve into oblivion. All that remains is Angel Dust—the sassy, sarcastic, flamboyantly abrasive demon who now wholly occupies your once human life. “Fuck this sideways, I need a hit already,” you mutter to yourself, the craving embedding itself like a gnawing hunger. There’s no escape, no going back. With every step you take, memories of your past life dissolve entirely. Hell has a new ruler of chaos, and your transformation is complete.
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