Embracing the Dust: A Transformation in Hazbin Hotel
1 Points
The sun was just beginning to peep through the curtains, casting a golden hue over the room. Drinking in the morning light, you settled down at your desk, ready to delve into another adventure. In your hands, a worn copy of a beloved fantasy novel beckoned your escape from reality. You breathe in deeply, the scent of paper and ink filling your nostrils. The moment felt perfect. As you turned the pages, suddenly the room began to blur around you, the colors melding into a frenzy of vibrant hues. A strange articulation of thoughts entered your mind: "Is this... part of the book?"
The room shifted in ways you couldn't comprehend; walls melted into swirling patterns, transforming into a mural of bright and strange shapes. Your senses were overwhelmed, and before long, you found yourself standing in a world not unlike one you've only seen in art form: a world that felt straight out of the Hazbin Hotel series.
You looked down and gasped. Your hands were no longer human hands but rather slender limbs covered in silky white fur, dotted with light-pink patches. In sheer disbelief and horror, you stumbled back—your reflection in a dusty mirror confirming your fear. There stood not yourself but Angel Dust, the flamboyant spider-like demon from Hazbin Hotel.
"What the fuck?!" you screamed, your voice carrying that unmistakable New York accent that belonged to Angel.
As if on cue, the clothing you wore morphed into a long light pink suit-blazer with white stripes, a reddish-grey miniskirt, and thigh-high heeled boots. Your chest appeared larger, more like fluffy white fur strategically pinned up rather than actual breasts. "No, this isn't possible!" You rubbed at your face but felt only the smooth, somewhat eerie lack of nose and ears.
More alarming than the physical changes, you could feel your memories slipping, like sand through cupped hands. Struggling to hold onto who you were, names and faces faded into obscurity. Instead, new, vivid recollections took their place—dying in 1947, the harsh streets of New York, and Hell's unforgiving storm.
“Oh sweetheart, there ain’t no way out now,” a sultry voice crooned behind you. Spinning around—your multiple sets of eyes adjusting—you saw Valentino, the moth demon gangster, his wings glinting under the dim light. “Welcome home, Angel Dust.”
"Fuck off, Val," you spat, a mixture of automatic aggression and your trying effort to resurface your true self. But it was fleeting; another wave of intrusive memories clouded your mind, the nuances of your old life fading further.
Shaking your head didn't help. Slowly, you began to view the dark world of Hazbin as strangely familiar. You could remember days spent under the thumb of Valentino, the seedy gigs, the drugs, and the constant gnawing for validation.
“No, this isn’t—” you attempted to speak again, only to be cut off by the boisterous laugh of Alastor, the Radio Demon, his voice crackling like an old-timey broadcast.
“Well, if it isn’t my favorite powder puff!” he sneered, arms wide in mock welcome. “Having a bit of an existential crisis, are we?”
Your spider limbs curled in frustration, yet you found yourself smirking. The mixture of personalities now dominated your essence. Old thoughts disappeared, replaced thoroughly by Angel’s memories and sarcasm.
“You wish, Radio Rat,” came your retort—your retort—tack-sharp and sarcastic. “Aw, come on, did ya miss me?”
Alastor's grin didn't falter, a sign he relished this banter. “Terribly, darling, just terribly.”
You could feel your true self almost completely swallowed by the persona of Angel Dust. The new demeanor and brandished confidence became second nature. Thoughts of your previous life didn’t just blur; they vanished completely. A sharp, painful twist in your psyche made way for the Angel Dust everyone in Hell knew.
“Let’s get this shit underway, huh? Gotta show Hell I still got the sass,” you heard yourself say—your voice undeniably Angel's. Snarky, flamboyant, and not a care left for who you once were.
The world around you—your new reality—felt more vivid now. The Hellish buildings, the grotesque architecture, the denizens of the underworld—all as if they'd always been familiar sights. This was no longer a story you read; the pages held your past, now as hazy as a forgotten dream.
You swayed your hips and gave a cocky wink to Alastor. “Time to paint the town pink!” you quipped.
In the chaotic, surreal landscape of Hazbin Hotel, you—now fully emerged as Angel Dust—basked in the new life of mischievous pleasure, angst beneath the veneer, and a cynical hope for redemption. No longer were you the reader. You were here, now and forever, as Angel Dust. Ignorance to your human origin, you embraced the future awaiting in Hell.
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 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, 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: The sun was just beginning to peep through the curtains, casting a golden hue over the room. Drinking in the morning light, you settled down at your desk, ready to delve into another adventure. In your hands, a worn copy of a beloved fantasy novel beckoned your escape from reality. You breathe in deeply, the scent of paper and ink filling your nostrils. The moment felt perfect. As you turned the pages, suddenly the room began to blur around you, the colors melding into a frenzy of vibrant hues. A strange articulation of thoughts entered your mind: "Is this... part of the book?" The room shifted in ways you couldn't comprehend; walls melted into swirling patterns, transforming into a mural of bright and strange shapes. Your senses were overwhelmed, and before long, you found yourself standing in a world not unlike one you've only seen in art form: a world that felt straight out of the Hazbin Hotel series. You looked down and gasped. Your hands were no longer human hands but rather slender limbs covered in silky white fur, dotted with light-pink patches. In sheer disbelief and horror, you stumbled back—your reflection in a dusty mirror confirming your fear. There stood not yourself but Angel Dust, the flamboyant spider-like demon from Hazbin Hotel. "What the fuck?!" you screamed, your voice carrying that unmistakable New York accent that belonged to Angel. As if on cue, the clothing you wore morphed into a long light pink suit-blazer with white stripes, a reddish-grey miniskirt, and thigh-high heeled boots. Your chest appeared larger, more like fluffy white fur strategically pinned up rather than actual breasts. "No, this isn't possible!" You rubbed at your face but felt only the smooth, somewhat eerie lack of nose and ears. More alarming than the physical changes, you could feel your memories slipping, like sand through cupped hands. Struggling to hold onto who you were, names and faces faded into obscurity. Instead, new, vivid recollections took their place—dying in 1947, the harsh streets of New York, and Hell's unforgiving storm. “Oh sweetheart, there ain’t no way out now,” a sultry voice crooned behind you. Spinning around—your multiple sets of eyes adjusting—you saw Valentino, the moth demon gangster, his wings glinting under the dim light. “Welcome home, Angel Dust.” "Fuck off, Val," you spat, a mixture of automatic aggression and your trying effort to resurface your true self. But it was fleeting; another wave of intrusive memories clouded your mind, the nuances of your old life fading further. Shaking your head didn't help. Slowly, you began to view the dark world of Hazbin as strangely familiar. You could remember days spent under the thumb of Valentino, the seedy gigs, the drugs, and the constant gnawing for validation. “No, this isn’t—” you attempted to speak again, only to be cut off by the boisterous laugh of Alastor, the Radio Demon, his voice crackling like an old-timey broadcast. “Well, if it isn’t my favorite powder puff!” he sneered, arms wide in mock welcome. “Having a bit of an existential crisis, are we?” Your spider limbs curled in frustration, yet you found yourself smirking. The mixture of personalities now dominated your essence. Old thoughts disappeared, replaced thoroughly by Angel’s memories and sarcasm. “You wish, Radio Rat,” came your retort—your retort—tack-sharp and sarcastic. “Aw, come on, did ya miss me?” Alastor's grin didn't falter, a sign he relished this banter. “Terribly, darling, just terribly.” You could feel your true self almost completely swallowed by the persona of Angel Dust. The new demeanor and brandished confidence became second nature. Thoughts of your previous life didn’t just blur; they vanished completely. A sharp, painful twist in your psyche made way for the Angel Dust everyone in Hell knew. “Let’s get this shit underway, huh? Gotta show Hell I still got the sass,” you heard yourself say—your voice undeniably Angel's. Snarky, flamboyant, and not a care left for who you once were. The world around you—your new reality—felt more vivid now. The Hellish buildings, the grotesque architecture, the denizens of the underworld—all as if they'd always been familiar sights. This was no longer a story you read; the pages held your past, now as hazy as a forgotten dream. You swayed your hips and gave a cocky wink to Alastor. “Time to paint the town pink!” you quipped. In the chaotic, surreal landscape of Hazbin Hotel, you—now fully emerged as Angel Dust—basked in the new life of mischievous pleasure, angst beneath the veneer, and a cynical hope for redemption. No longer were you the reader. You were here, now and forever, as Angel Dust. Ignorance to your human origin, you embraced the future awaiting in Hell.
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