Angel Dust lounged in his usual corner of the Hazbin Hotel lobby, idly flicking his sharp cerise-pink nails. His thoughts meandered between finding his next fix and dreaming of another night filled with the tantalizing chaos he so loved. "This place is such a shithole," he muttered, his voice dripping with sarcasm. The grandiosity of the hotel's name amused him, given its rundown state. "Wonder how long it’ll take for Bambi to rear his ugly head today."
A pulse of energy—dark, foreboding—radiated from behind him, interrupting his reverie. Angel turned to see Vaggie, her usual scowl replaced with a hint of fear. Following her gaze, his cerise-pink eyes locked onto the source: a swirling, red-black void materializing in the air. "What the fuck now?" he spat, more annoyed than alarmed.
Out of the void emerged a vintage microphone, floating ominously. Angel felt a chill but refused to show it. He rolled his eyes. "Oh great, another freak in freaktown."
To his surprise, the microphone spoke with a voice reminiscent of old-time radio broadcasts. "Ah, Angel, charming as always," it quipped. "But it’s not you I'm here for." The air grew dense, static crackling.
Angel cocked an eyebrow. "Really? Well, why don't you buzz off then?" Before he could say more, the microphone exuded a magnetic force that seemed to grip his very soul.
He tried to move, but his limbs felt like they were encased in cement. His mocking facade crumbled, replaced with genuine panic. "What the hell is this?" he shouted, voice cracking.
"An invitation," the voice from the microphone purred. "To eternity."
Angel's vision blurred and his surroundings began to shift and swirl with maddening speed. The sensation was like being torn apart and reformed, agonizing yet numbing at once. His body convulsed, arms and legs retracting, shrinking, reshaping. His once sleek, stylish outfit transformed into a red pinstriped coat, his multiple limbs consolidating to two, fingers elongating and becoming red-tipped. His eight-foot stature reduced, compressing to a more human, albeit tall, seven feet.
His thoughts, once filled with crude jokes and lascivious fantasies, were supplanted by a cadre of archaic references and meticulous schemes. The memories of acting in Hell’s adult industry faded like dissipating smoke, replaced by the chilling efficiency of a calculating mind.
The transformation completed, he stood flicking his new, red-deer hoofed toes, one still firmly grasped around the articulate cane.
"Good afternoon, dear inhabitants," he said, his voice echoing with the smooth, confident resonance of an old-time radio host. "I am Alastor, but you may call me The Radio Demon." He grinned, exposing rows of sharp, yellow teeth.
Vaggie's fear morphed into horrified recognition. "What have you done, Angel?!"
Alastor's smile widened, filled with a twisted joy. "Angel? I know not of any such name. Pray tell, are you addressing me?" A dark chuckle emanated from him. "Do not fret. I bring only opportunity and order to this delightful domicile. And I shall do so splendidly."
From the lingering void, Alastor pulled the vintage microphone to his lips. "My, my, it appears we have quite the program ahead of us. Stay tuned, dear residents," he announced, his tone playful but underlined with a sinister note. "And remember, the Radio Demon is always watching."
In the recesses of his subconscious, a vestige of Angel Dust screamed, but it was smothered ruthlessly by Alastor's dominant will. He moved with eerie precision, his every step a broadcast, his every word imbued with the authority of a radio show host. Angel Dust was no more; only Alastor remained, and Hell would never be the same again.
This story was generated by user MorningstarSon3 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 the transformation story of Angel "Anthony" Dust (from an adults cartoon/animated series "Hazbin Hotel" made by VivziePop) turning into Alastor (also from an adults cartoon/animated series "Hazbin Hotel" made by VivziePop), complete with age change, height regression, and mind/mental change (with Angel's personality and memories being completely replaced with Alastor's personality and memories, making him completely forget that he was a spider-like adults actor Angel Dust and only remembered ever being Alastor the Radio Demon). For Angel Dust's appearance, he has a slender build and he stands around 8 feet with his heels on. 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 three cerise-pink dots under each of his eyes, which are intended to evoke freckles, although they are actually another set of smaller eyes. 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, Angel has a third retractable set of arms that he usually keeps hidden but can summon at will. Angel is brash and sarcastic, with a quick, sharp wit. 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. For Alastor's appearance (after Angel Dust turned into him), he is a slim, dapper sinner demon with beige-colored skin, and usually has a broad smile full of sharp, yellow teeth. He is approximately 7 feet tall. He sports a pinkish-red cropped, angled bob-cut with black tips at the ends and two large, black tipped tufts of hair extending from the top of his head, evoking the ears of a deer. The style has an undercut at the back, and two small black antlers protruding from the crown, which can grow in size in his full demonic form. Alastor's eyes have dark-red sclerae, bright-red irises and thin black pupils (which can change into the shape of radio dials when shifting into his full demon form). His forearms and lower legs fade to dark grey, and he has red hoofed toes and red fingers. Alastor wears a red pinstripe coat with dark-red lapels piped with white, which is ragged along the bottom hem. Underneath this he wears a bright red dress-shirt with a black cross on the chest, and long black dress pants with matching bright red cuffs. He also wears a dark-red oval-shaped monocle, rimmed with black, over his right eye. He accessorizes with a black knotted bowtie with a bright red center, black gloves with red at the fingertips, and black pointed-toe boots with red deer hoofprints emblazoned on the soles. Alastor also carries a thin cane with a sentient vintage style microphone attached to it, which he uses to play sound effects and broadcast his voice. Alastor stands out from many of the more chaotic residents of hell for his well maintained amiable persona. He gives the first-impression of a good-natured and charming man, wearing a permanently wide grin on his face at all times. Alastor's behavior, mannerisms, and even his voice are similar to an old-fashioned radio announcer and speaks with a transatlantic accent, often using quaint anachronisms such as "the picture show" and refers to Charlie as a "charming demon belle". This playful dandyish exterior, however, obscures a much darker side to him - one with high levels of self-importance - and he will not hesitate to use physical violence when others don't act in line with his very particular values or expectations. There should also be quotes from the characters in this story (including swears/cursing from Angel Dust himself, but not from Alastor) so we know what they're saying and what they're thinking.
Response: Angel Dust lounged in his usual corner of the Hazbin Hotel lobby, idly flicking his sharp cerise-pink nails. His thoughts meandered between finding his next fix and dreaming of another night filled with the tantalizing chaos he so loved. "This place is such a shithole," he muttered, his voice dripping with sarcasm. The grandiosity of the hotel's name amused him, given its rundown state. "Wonder how long it’ll take for Bambi to rear his ugly head today." A pulse of energy—dark, foreboding—radiated from behind him, interrupting his reverie. Angel turned to see Vaggie, her usual scowl replaced with a hint of fear. Following her gaze, his cerise-pink eyes locked onto the source: a swirling, red-black void materializing in the air. "What the fuck now?" he spat, more annoyed than alarmed. Out of the void emerged a vintage microphone, floating ominously. Angel felt a chill but refused to show it. He rolled his eyes. "Oh great, another freak in freaktown." To his surprise, the microphone spoke with a voice reminiscent of old-time radio broadcasts. "Ah, Angel, charming as always," it quipped. "But it’s not you I'm here for." The air grew dense, static crackling. Angel cocked an eyebrow. "Really? Well, why don't you buzz off then?" Before he could say more, the microphone exuded a magnetic force that seemed to grip his very soul. He tried to move, but his limbs felt like they were encased in cement. His mocking facade crumbled, replaced with genuine panic. "What the hell is this?" he shouted, voice cracking. "An invitation," the voice from the microphone purred. "To eternity." Angel's vision blurred and his surroundings began to shift and swirl with maddening speed. The sensation was like being torn apart and reformed, agonizing yet numbing at once. His body convulsed, arms and legs retracting, shrinking, reshaping. His once sleek, stylish outfit transformed into a red pinstriped coat, his multiple limbs consolidating to two, fingers elongating and becoming red-tipped. His eight-foot stature reduced, compressing to a more human, albeit tall, seven feet. His thoughts, once filled with crude jokes and lascivious fantasies, were supplanted by a cadre of archaic references and meticulous schemes. The memories of acting in Hell’s adult industry faded like dissipating smoke, replaced by the chilling efficiency of a calculating mind. The transformation completed, he stood flicking his new, red-deer hoofed toes, one still firmly grasped around the articulate cane. "Good afternoon, dear inhabitants," he said, his voice echoing with the smooth, confident resonance of an old-time radio host. "I am Alastor, but you may call me The Radio Demon." He grinned, exposing rows of sharp, yellow teeth. Vaggie's fear morphed into horrified recognition. "What have you done, Angel?!" Alastor's smile widened, filled with a twisted joy. "Angel? I know not of any such name. Pray tell, are you addressing me?" A dark chuckle emanated from him. "Do not fret. I bring only opportunity and order to this delightful domicile. And I shall do so splendidly." From the lingering void, Alastor pulled the vintage microphone to his lips. "My, my, it appears we have quite the program ahead of us. Stay tuned, dear residents," he announced, his tone playful but underlined with a sinister note. "And remember, the Radio Demon is always watching." In the recesses of his subconscious, a vestige of Angel Dust screamed, but it was smothered ruthlessly by Alastor's dominant will. He moved with eerie precision, his every step a broadcast, his every word imbued with the authority of a radio show host. Angel Dust was no more; only Alastor remained, and Hell would never be the same again.
AI Prompts: 1
Post your own comment: