The room shutters as the sky darkens ominously, crackling with an unfamiliar energy. The plush armchair under you begins to feel less tangible, your fingers slipping involuntarily from the book. The world around you fractures into jagged shards of reality and fiction, dissolving like sand swept away by a fierce gust. Panic begins to swell within you like a tidal wave, but before you can react, the transformation begins.
Your skin tingles unnervingly, stretching and pulling into an entirely new form. Pain courses through you as your body contorts and grows. Your clothes vanish for a split second before being replaced by a tight-fitting light pink suit-blazer, a reddish-grey miniskirt, and towering thigh-high boots. The sensation is bewildering; you feel your height extending, pushing past the limits of human stature until you reach nearly eight feet tall.
A sudden, searing heat courses across your features. You try to cry out, but your voice cracks and morphs. The skin under your hands feels soft—not skin but fur now. A quick glance confirms it; white fur mottled with light-pink splotches covers your new lithe frame. Fluffy hair frames your vision, obstructing it momentarily until you shake it free. The heart pattern on the back of your head feels oddly familiar, yet you can’t remember why.
“Holy fuck,” you try to mutter, but the words come out in a distinctly New York accent. What the hell? You realize your new mouth is full of pointed teeth, a golden fang glinting in your peripheral view.
An overwhelming flood of memories slithers into your consciousness, coiling around your mind and squeezing out any remnants of who you once were. Memories from another lifetime—a life as a sinner demon named Angel Dust, dying in 1947 and dealing with the relentless torment of Hell. The more you struggle, the tighter these memories bind you, every small effort feeling like wading through tar.
A twisted grin stretches across your face, not entirely of your own will. Psyche and soul synchronize sluggishly beneath a coat of flamboyant defiance and brashness. The very essence of Angel Dust nestles into your existence, every corner of your mind stamping out the last hopes of recalling your human life.
“Well, ain't this a fuckin' thrill,” the voice you no longer recognize as not your own purrs. “One minute I'm readin' a goddamn book, the next, I'm back where I belong. Hell, ain’t that a trip?”
Charlie’s voice breaks into your awareness, adding to the surreal sensation, "Angel, what's got you so talkative tonight? Valentino not riding your ass hard enough?" She smirks at you, though the concern in her eyes is barely hidden.
The name Valentino hits you like a bullet—a swirl of trauma and rage stirs in your gut. “That bastard’s got another thing comin’ if he thinks he can keep pushin' me around.”
A familiar figure strides toward you, a wide smirk splitting his face. Valentino, the one who's been the source of so much of Angel’s grief. “Hey, sweets. Got that job done for me yet?”
Your—or rather Angel’s—demeanor shifts instantly, a blend of fear and bravado surging to the forefront. “Yeah, yeah, Val,” you say, a mocking lilt in your tone. “Just about to head out. Don't get your feathers in a bunch.”
Val’s eyes glint with malice as he grabs you by the arm, leaning in with a sneer, “You forget your place again, puppet, and there will be hell to pay.”
The memories—the terror, the pain—they flare up, but are quickly buried beneath a mask of indifference and cockiness you don’t remember donning. “Oh, please, Val. You ain’t gonna do shit until the job's done. Ain’t that right?”
Valentino’s grip tightens momentarily before he releases you with a snort. “Just remember who owns you, Angel,” he says, sauntering away.
Charlie places a hand on your—Angel’s—shoulder, “You okay?”
A sarcastic laugh bubbles up within you. “Yeah, just fucking dandy. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need a goddamn drink.” You saunter off, high heels clicking sharp against the ground. Every step distancing you more from the human you once were, solidifying the identity of Angel Dust.
In the distant recesses of a mind now predominantly Angel’s, there remains a small voice—barely a whisper—echoing faintly: What the hell happened to me? But it grows fainter, until it vanishes entirely, leaving behind only the demon, the sinner, the spider: Angel Dust.
This story was generated by user DylanVsFizzarolli9 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 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 in this story (including quotes from the reader) so we know what they're saying and what they're thinking (including profanities/swears/strong language 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: The room shutters as the sky darkens ominously, crackling with an unfamiliar energy. The plush armchair under you begins to feel less tangible, your fingers slipping involuntarily from the book. The world around you fractures into jagged shards of reality and fiction, dissolving like sand swept away by a fierce gust. Panic begins to swell within you like a tidal wave, but before you can react, the transformation begins. Your skin tingles unnervingly, stretching and pulling into an entirely new form. Pain courses through you as your body contorts and grows. Your clothes vanish for a split second before being replaced by a tight-fitting light pink suit-blazer, a reddish-grey miniskirt, and towering thigh-high boots. The sensation is bewildering; you feel your height extending, pushing past the limits of human stature until you reach nearly eight feet tall. A sudden, searing heat courses across your features. You try to cry out, but your voice cracks and morphs. The skin under your hands feels soft—not skin but fur now. A quick glance confirms it; white fur mottled with light-pink splotches covers your new lithe frame. Fluffy hair frames your vision, obstructing it momentarily until you shake it free. The heart pattern on the back of your head feels oddly familiar, yet you can’t remember why. “Holy fuck,” you try to mutter, but the words come out in a distinctly New York accent. What the hell? You realize your new mouth is full of pointed teeth, a golden fang glinting in your peripheral view. An overwhelming flood of memories slithers into your consciousness, coiling around your mind and squeezing out any remnants of who you once were. Memories from another lifetime—a life as a sinner demon named Angel Dust, dying in 1947 and dealing with the relentless torment of Hell. The more you struggle, the tighter these memories bind you, every small effort feeling like wading through tar. A twisted grin stretches across your face, not entirely of your own will. Psyche and soul synchronize sluggishly beneath a coat of flamboyant defiance and brashness. The very essence of Angel Dust nestles into your existence, every corner of your mind stamping out the last hopes of recalling your human life. “Well, ain't this a fuckin' thrill,” the voice you no longer recognize as not your own purrs. “One minute I'm readin' a goddamn book, the next, I'm back where I belong. Hell, ain’t that a trip?” Charlie’s voice breaks into your awareness, adding to the surreal sensation, "Angel, what's got you so talkative tonight? Valentino not riding your ass hard enough?" She smirks at you, though the concern in her eyes is barely hidden. The name Valentino hits you like a bullet—a swirl of trauma and rage stirs in your gut. “That bastard’s got another thing comin’ if he thinks he can keep pushin' me around.” A familiar figure strides toward you, a wide smirk splitting his face. Valentino, the one who's been the source of so much of Angel’s grief. “Hey, sweets. Got that job done for me yet?” Your—or rather Angel’s—demeanor shifts instantly, a blend of fear and bravado surging to the forefront. “Yeah, yeah, Val,” you say, a mocking lilt in your tone. “Just about to head out. Don't get your feathers in a bunch.” Val’s eyes glint with malice as he grabs you by the arm, leaning in with a sneer, “You forget your place again, puppet, and there will be hell to pay.” The memories—the terror, the pain—they flare up, but are quickly buried beneath a mask of indifference and cockiness you don’t remember donning. “Oh, please, Val. You ain’t gonna do shit until the job's done. Ain’t that right?” Valentino’s grip tightens momentarily before he releases you with a snort. “Just remember who owns you, Angel,” he says, sauntering away. Charlie places a hand on your—Angel’s—shoulder, “You okay?” A sarcastic laugh bubbles up within you. “Yeah, just fucking dandy. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need a goddamn drink.” You saunter off, high heels clicking sharp against the ground. Every step distancing you more from the human you once were, solidifying the identity of Angel Dust. In the distant recesses of a mind now predominantly Angel’s, there remains a small voice—barely a whisper—echoing faintly: What the hell happened to me? But it grows fainter, until it vanishes entirely, leaving behind only the demon, the sinner, the spider: Angel Dust.
AI Prompts: 1
Post your own comment: