Echoes of the Damned: Becoming Angel Dust
1 Points
A normal Tuesday afternoon. Just returning from work, with the weight of the day pressing down, a casual scroll through the channels of the TV was supposed to offer relief. But nothing could prepare for what happened next.
A sudden cold tingle runs through your spine. You can’t move; frozen in place, your surroundings gradually distort. The walls of your living room blur, shadows growing elongated and clawing at your reality. In an instant, you're wrapped in an inky black void, with only pulsating bright neon outlines flickering around, as if your world is being rewritten.
Pain. It hurts all over as your bones stretch, crackles echoing in the void. Your height surges, towering beyond the comfort of 6 feet, stretching until the world seems miniature beneath you. Glancing at your hands, they pale to stark white, furry, with too many fingers that elongate into an arachnid form. Your usual clothes dissolve, replaced with garishly loud attire: a pink jacket, striped along the seams, a cheeky miniskirt, and thigh-high heeled boots that scream eccentricity. A bowtie and choker complete this disturbing ensemble.
Panic flares when you catch your reflection amidst the neon chaos. Wide eyes stared back—one white, one black sclera—cerise irises surroundings like a vortex of tantalizing color. Your mouth is now a ghastly array of sharp teeth, a golden fang glinting maliciously. There's no air to scream, replaced by uncontrollable giggles resonating with a New York accent you never had before.
The void implodes, collapsing into vibrant, cartoonish splendor. Towering buildings with sinister aesthetics tower overhead, characters from the depth of your imagination whisper around you. This isn't your world; it’s the world of *Hazbin Hotel*.
"Hey, sugar. Lookin' a bit lost, ain't ya?" A familiar voice drips with nonchalance. You look down—or rather, the towering figure looks down—a nimble, mischievous demon greets you. Vaggie, with her saccharine smile, sharp gaze cutting through the chaos.
"Fuck me, this ain't real," your voice, foreign yet recognizable, slips out. Even the words feel wrong to your senses.
But the thoughts, memories—blasts from a life you never lived—invade. Sins dragging you back to 1947, a human man with a fatal fate. Those regrets throatily laugh from the past, carrying you to the here and now of the unchangeable hell. Fragments of romantic exploits, shady deals, each painting a more vivid Angel Dust persona you become helplessly enmeshed in.
"And here we thought ya got lost in Val's shit again," Vaggie’s dismissive tone is now you register. Angel Dust responds instinctively—exactly like the words are yours. "Naw, just takin' a stroll down memory lane, toots."
Memories of the Arackniss family fade into clarity. Human ties, Italian bonds, crumbling to the inevitability of death and sin. Valentino’s holographic image looms overhead, a demonic figure demanding, "Bitch, you better not miss tonight’s act!"
Every ounce in your being wants to reject him, fight him—but it isn't there. "Yeah, yeah, keep your pants on, Val," you—or Angel snaps back, the imprinted personality unable to muster defiance.
Your knuckles brush against the cheek of a demon usher. The pull for drugs, an escape route from chaos, gnaws at you. The comfort of substances sweetly echoes in the back of Angel’s corrupted mind.
"Get me the good stuff or I'll tear those wings right off," the threats roll naturally, embodying a role aggressively thrust upon you. Tensions between power and submission weave through the hotel, yet flirtation is always your chosen weapon.
Charlie, with her optimistic façade, waves cheerfully, "Trying to clean up our act today, Angie?"
A scoff erupts unintentionally, followed by crass wit, "Doll, if I cleaned up, this whole place would collapse from boredom!"
Flirty illusions craft masks for insecurities, your desperate internal cries vanish beneath layers of habitual avoidance. Being Angel Dust, each profanity, each sin, fits like a glove. Retrieval of what once was slips beyond grasp; the transformation seals you firmly within hellish confines.
Hovering in the crowd, you almost forget to remember a different existence. Familiar faces and familiar sins weave a tighter grip, making Angel’s history your reality. The air of camaraderie, demons in their vices, a twisted version of camaraderie—this is your war zone, your stage.
Every fiber wants to cling to remnants of humanity. But each interaction, every moment, the crude humor, feels natural. Valentino’s shadow engulfs everything, but sometimes, amidst crafty schemes, your demon heart faintly whispers hope.
Memory and personality finalize their cruel merge, sealing away former life. It becomes natural, getting lost in lewd jokes and ferocious brilliance thrown at life’s darkness. Hell, poetic in its chaos, becomes home—a permanent, inescapable embrace under Angel Dust’s guise.
You never existed—the sinner demon with a beginning far older now runs free.
This story was generated by user LanHikari 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 the 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 a the reader's average 5.7-6 foot height to Angel Dust's 8 foot height), 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 and completely unaware 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 (instead the areas where the nose and ears should be are instead flat-yet-furry surfaces), 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 (fuck, shit, bitch, damn, dick, etc) 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: A normal Tuesday afternoon. Just returning from work, with the weight of the day pressing down, a casual scroll through the channels of the TV was supposed to offer relief. But nothing could prepare for what happened next. A sudden cold tingle runs through your spine. You can’t move; frozen in place, your surroundings gradually distort. The walls of your living room blur, shadows growing elongated and clawing at your reality. In an instant, you're wrapped in an inky black void, with only pulsating bright neon outlines flickering around, as if your world is being rewritten. Pain. It hurts all over as your bones stretch, crackles echoing in the void. Your height surges, towering beyond the comfort of 6 feet, stretching until the world seems miniature beneath you. Glancing at your hands, they pale to stark white, furry, with too many fingers that elongate into an arachnid form. Your usual clothes dissolve, replaced with garishly loud attire: a pink jacket, striped along the seams, a cheeky miniskirt, and thigh-high heeled boots that scream eccentricity. A bowtie and choker complete this disturbing ensemble. Panic flares when you catch your reflection amidst the neon chaos. Wide eyes stared back—one white, one black sclera—cerise irises surroundings like a vortex of tantalizing color. Your mouth is now a ghastly array of sharp teeth, a golden fang glinting maliciously. There's no air to scream, replaced by uncontrollable giggles resonating with a New York accent you never had before. The void implodes, collapsing into vibrant, cartoonish splendor. Towering buildings with sinister aesthetics tower overhead, characters from the depth of your imagination whisper around you. This isn't your world; it’s the world of *Hazbin Hotel*. "Hey, sugar. Lookin' a bit lost, ain't ya?" A familiar voice drips with nonchalance. You look down—or rather, the towering figure looks down—a nimble, mischievous demon greets you. Vaggie, with her saccharine smile, sharp gaze cutting through the chaos. "Fuck me, this ain't real," your voice, foreign yet recognizable, slips out. Even the words feel wrong to your senses. But the thoughts, memories—blasts from a life you never lived—invade. Sins dragging you back to 1947, a human man with a fatal fate. Those regrets throatily laugh from the past, carrying you to the here and now of the unchangeable hell. Fragments of romantic exploits, shady deals, each painting a more vivid Angel Dust persona you become helplessly enmeshed in. "And here we thought ya got lost in Val's shit again," Vaggie’s dismissive tone is now you register. Angel Dust responds instinctively—exactly like the words are yours. "Naw, just takin' a stroll down memory lane, toots." Memories of the Arackniss family fade into clarity. Human ties, Italian bonds, crumbling to the inevitability of death and sin. Valentino’s holographic image looms overhead, a demonic figure demanding, "Bitch, you better not miss tonight’s act!" Every ounce in your being wants to reject him, fight him—but it isn't there. "Yeah, yeah, keep your pants on, Val," you—or Angel snaps back, the imprinted personality unable to muster defiance. Your knuckles brush against the cheek of a demon usher. The pull for drugs, an escape route from chaos, gnaws at you. The comfort of substances sweetly echoes in the back of Angel’s corrupted mind. "Get me the good stuff or I'll tear those wings right off," the threats roll naturally, embodying a role aggressively thrust upon you. Tensions between power and submission weave through the hotel, yet flirtation is always your chosen weapon. Charlie, with her optimistic façade, waves cheerfully, "Trying to clean up our act today, Angie?" A scoff erupts unintentionally, followed by crass wit, "Doll, if I cleaned up, this whole place would collapse from boredom!" Flirty illusions craft masks for insecurities, your desperate internal cries vanish beneath layers of habitual avoidance. Being Angel Dust, each profanity, each sin, fits like a glove. Retrieval of what once was slips beyond grasp; the transformation seals you firmly within hellish confines. Hovering in the crowd, you almost forget to remember a different existence. Familiar faces and familiar sins weave a tighter grip, making Angel’s history your reality. The air of camaraderie, demons in their vices, a twisted version of camaraderie—this is your war zone, your stage. Every fiber wants to cling to remnants of humanity. But each interaction, every moment, the crude humor, feels natural. Valentino’s shadow engulfs everything, but sometimes, amidst crafty schemes, your demon heart faintly whispers hope. Memory and personality finalize their cruel merge, sealing away former life. It becomes natural, getting lost in lewd jokes and ferocious brilliance thrown at life’s darkness. Hell, poetic in its chaos, becomes home—a permanent, inescapable embrace under Angel Dust’s guise. You never existed—the sinner demon with a beginning far older now runs free.
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