Metamorphosis in Hell: Embracing Angel Dust
1 Points
The day began like any other mundane day in the human world. You rolled out of bed, groggy and reluctant, glancing at the clock to check the time. A sigh escaped your lips—late again. Shuffling over to the mirror, you barely recognized the disheveled human reflected back at you. But before you could even comprehend brushing your teeth, a blinding flash enveloped you, devouring every fragment of reality around you.
Desperately, you squeezed your eyes shut, but the world continued to whirl and twist, yanking you from the drab confines of your room into something otherworldly. Heart racing, you opened your eyes to an entirely new reality. The world was brighter, more vivid, with exaggerated, cartoonish outlines. You could feel your form stretching and reshaping, like a puppet under the control of an invisible hand.
Your legs extended, causing you to tower above your previous height, now standing at a staggering eight feet. Your arms—four of them, no less—unfurled, revealing thin and spidery fingers. Instead of smooth skin, you found yourself covered in white fur, accented with powder-pink splotches. Your chest, once human, now sported the appearance of fluffy fur, exaggerated to mimic feminine curves. A suit-blazer, boots, gloves—a whole new wardrobe enveloped your form without warning. You were no longer human; you were Angel Dust.
You stumbled back, trying to grasp at fading memories of your human life, but they slipped through your fingers like sand. Instead, new memories—brash and filled with sarcasm—invaded your mind. You remember dying in 1947, now a spider-like demon who thrived on the chaos of Hell. You cursed, the words forming naturally on your new lips.
"Oh fuck!" you exclaimed, clutching your now heart-patterned head. The voice coming out of your mouth was unmistakably different—the rough, New York accent of Angel Dust replacing your normal tone.
As the transformation seared into permanence, your surroundings shifted. The once-familiar environment morphed into the gaudy and sinister world of Hazbin Hotel. You looked around, confusion partially replaced by twisted curiosity. This place, with its overwhelming reds and golds and its hellish atmosphere, seemed somewhere between oppressive and liberating to you.
A laugh bubbled up from your throat. The image of a human shell was almost laughable now. "What the hell?" you muttered, half amused, half bewildered. Near you, Charlie, the princess of Hell, gazed with an encouraging smile.
"Angel, you seemed lost in thought. Something bothering ya?" Her voice was calm, albeit concerned.
Your mind, now Angel's, immediately jumped to something witty. "Oh, sweetie, ain't nothing bothering me that a good hit can't fix, y'know?" The sarcasm dripped effortlessly from your tongue.
Before Charlie could reply, another familiar figure strode into view—Valentino, your so-called boss. His towering presence sent a shiver down your new spine. "Angel! Get your fluffy ass over here. We've got business to attend to," his voice cut through the air, both commanding and suffocating.
You flicked a hand dismissively, “Yeah, yeah, Val, keep your pants on! Or, y'know what? Don’t. I don't fuckin' care.”
Every sarcastic word, every brash reaction, felt like second nature. The memories of your old self were now like a distant, forgotten dream. But somewhere, deep inside, a flicker of the old you resisted. Yet, no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t conjure up your past life. It was like trying to recall a book you read as a child—blurred and uncertain.
As the day continued, you found yourself slipping seamlessly into the chaotic rhythm of Hazbin Hotel. Effortlessly flirting with others, engaging in crude humor, and navigating the dangers of Hell with a swagger that was undeniably Angel Dust’s.
“Angel, hurry up!” Charlie’s urgent voice rang through the haze of your thoughts.
With a dramatic eye-roll, you responded, “Yeah, hold your horses, princess. What’s the rush? If Hell ain’t on fire, I ain’t movin’ my sweet ass!”
Valentino’s gaze was a constant shadow, every glance a reminder of the control he held over you. You internally winced, knowing the trauma he imposed, but outwardly, you remained unfazed and defiant. The facade you upheld was your armor, protecting the small, vulnerable part of you that still held onto hope—no matter how cynical it seemed.
The transition to Angel Dust wasn’t just a change in appearance; it was a complete overhaul of your identity. Yet, every sarcastic comment, every flirtatious smirk felt disturbingly natural, as if you had always been Angel Dust.
As night settled over Hazbin Hotel, your mind slowed, weary from the day’s chaos. In a rare, unguarded moment, you gazed into a nearby shattered mirror. The reflection that stared back wasn’t a blend of your old self and Angel Dust; it was purely Angel’s.
“Who was I?” you whisper, a flicker of doubt momentarily breaking the facade. The reflection smirked back, eyes glinting with mischief.
“Does it matter?” you found yourself saying, the words both comforting and damning. The personality of Angel Dust had won, enveloping your entire being.
With a final, resigned sigh, you turned away from the mirror, throwing yourself back into the maelstrom of your new reality. The old you was gone, erased by the chaotic allure and overwhelming persona of Angel Dust. In this hellish world, you weren’t just surviving—you were thriving, one sarcastic quip at a time.
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 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 day began like any other mundane day in the human world. You rolled out of bed, groggy and reluctant, glancing at the clock to check the time. A sigh escaped your lips—late again. Shuffling over to the mirror, you barely recognized the disheveled human reflected back at you. But before you could even comprehend brushing your teeth, a blinding flash enveloped you, devouring every fragment of reality around you. Desperately, you squeezed your eyes shut, but the world continued to whirl and twist, yanking you from the drab confines of your room into something otherworldly. Heart racing, you opened your eyes to an entirely new reality. The world was brighter, more vivid, with exaggerated, cartoonish outlines. You could feel your form stretching and reshaping, like a puppet under the control of an invisible hand. Your legs extended, causing you to tower above your previous height, now standing at a staggering eight feet. Your arms—four of them, no less—unfurled, revealing thin and spidery fingers. Instead of smooth skin, you found yourself covered in white fur, accented with powder-pink splotches. Your chest, once human, now sported the appearance of fluffy fur, exaggerated to mimic feminine curves. A suit-blazer, boots, gloves—a whole new wardrobe enveloped your form without warning. You were no longer human; you were Angel Dust. You stumbled back, trying to grasp at fading memories of your human life, but they slipped through your fingers like sand. Instead, new memories—brash and filled with sarcasm—invaded your mind. You remember dying in 1947, now a spider-like demon who thrived on the chaos of Hell. You cursed, the words forming naturally on your new lips. "Oh fuck!" you exclaimed, clutching your now heart-patterned head. The voice coming out of your mouth was unmistakably different—the rough, New York accent of Angel Dust replacing your normal tone. As the transformation seared into permanence, your surroundings shifted. The once-familiar environment morphed into the gaudy and sinister world of Hazbin Hotel. You looked around, confusion partially replaced by twisted curiosity. This place, with its overwhelming reds and golds and its hellish atmosphere, seemed somewhere between oppressive and liberating to you. A laugh bubbled up from your throat. The image of a human shell was almost laughable now. "What the hell?" you muttered, half amused, half bewildered. Near you, Charlie, the princess of Hell, gazed with an encouraging smile. "Angel, you seemed lost in thought. Something bothering ya?" Her voice was calm, albeit concerned. Your mind, now Angel's, immediately jumped to something witty. "Oh, sweetie, ain't nothing bothering me that a good hit can't fix, y'know?" The sarcasm dripped effortlessly from your tongue. Before Charlie could reply, another familiar figure strode into view—Valentino, your so-called boss. His towering presence sent a shiver down your new spine. "Angel! Get your fluffy ass over here. We've got business to attend to," his voice cut through the air, both commanding and suffocating. You flicked a hand dismissively, “Yeah, yeah, Val, keep your pants on! Or, y'know what? Don’t. I don't fuckin' care.” Every sarcastic word, every brash reaction, felt like second nature. The memories of your old self were now like a distant, forgotten dream. But somewhere, deep inside, a flicker of the old you resisted. Yet, no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t conjure up your past life. It was like trying to recall a book you read as a child—blurred and uncertain. As the day continued, you found yourself slipping seamlessly into the chaotic rhythm of Hazbin Hotel. Effortlessly flirting with others, engaging in crude humor, and navigating the dangers of Hell with a swagger that was undeniably Angel Dust’s. “Angel, hurry up!” Charlie’s urgent voice rang through the haze of your thoughts. With a dramatic eye-roll, you responded, “Yeah, hold your horses, princess. What’s the rush? If Hell ain’t on fire, I ain’t movin’ my sweet ass!” Valentino’s gaze was a constant shadow, every glance a reminder of the control he held over you. You internally winced, knowing the trauma he imposed, but outwardly, you remained unfazed and defiant. The facade you upheld was your armor, protecting the small, vulnerable part of you that still held onto hope—no matter how cynical it seemed. The transition to Angel Dust wasn’t just a change in appearance; it was a complete overhaul of your identity. Yet, every sarcastic comment, every flirtatious smirk felt disturbingly natural, as if you had always been Angel Dust. As night settled over Hazbin Hotel, your mind slowed, weary from the day’s chaos. In a rare, unguarded moment, you gazed into a nearby shattered mirror. The reflection that stared back wasn’t a blend of your old self and Angel Dust; it was purely Angel’s. “Who was I?” you whisper, a flicker of doubt momentarily breaking the facade. The reflection smirked back, eyes glinting with mischief. “Does it matter?” you found yourself saying, the words both comforting and damning. The personality of Angel Dust had won, enveloping your entire being. With a final, resigned sigh, you turned away from the mirror, throwing yourself back into the maelstrom of your new reality. The old you was gone, erased by the chaotic allure and overwhelming persona of Angel Dust. In this hellish world, you weren’t just surviving—you were thriving, one sarcastic quip at a time.
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