The Internet

Log In or Register

Write (with AI)

*"Transcendence of Angel Dust: A Hellish Metamorphosis"*

Bookmark
2 Points

### POV Transformation into Angel Dust

The day started like any other, but the minute the clock struck noon, your world changed dramatically. One instant you're scrolling through social media on your phone, the next, everything around you blurs and spins like some twisted kaleidoscope. You try to scream, but your voice catches in your throat. Colors swirl, shapes distort, and for a heart-stopping moment, you feel like you're falling through a kaleidoscope of neon and shadow. The ground beneath your feet morphs and warps, and before you can comprehend it, your entire reality contorts into a chaotic animation.

You blink open your eyes, now wider than they should be, taking in the world of Hazbin Hotel. Gone are the familiar sights of your home; the streets of Hell stretch endlessly before you, draped in crimson shadows and fiery hues. Instead of the comforting weight of your pajamas, you feel the tight fit of a flamboyant, albeit revealing, suit-blazer and miniskirt clinging to a body that's no longer yours.

Your limbs feel elongated, your fingers slender and clawed. You raise one of your now four arms to touch your face, feeling the smooth texture of fur instead of skin. Your heart races as you notice the lack of a nose and ears. Panic starts bubbling up, but it's quickly overridden by a creeping sensation in your mind.

Memories flood your mind, not your own, but of a life lived in 1947—a life as a gay man whose troubles didn’t end with death. You remember dying violently, only to awaken as a spider-like demon, navigating the grotesque beauty and torment of Hell. The name "Angel Dust" engrains itself in your identity. Every single bit of your human life fades into oblivion, replaced by Angel Dust's twisted, dark yet flamboyant memories and personality.

You hear your own voice, now with a thick New York accent, shout out, "Aw, for fuck's sake! Not this shit again!" The phrase rolls off your tongue with an ease that terrifies and fascinates you simultaneously. The words feel so natural, so effortless. You’re Angel Dust now. You *are* Angel Dust.

You try to fight it, hold onto something, anything from your previous existence, but it slips through your mental grasp like sand. Each attempt to remember only strengthens Angel’s reality. Memories of dealing drugs, fending off Valentino's abuse, the day-to-day survival in Hell, all imprint themselves as if they'd always been there, erasing your past.

Vox appears beside you, his static-like presence flickering ominously. "Better get used to it, Angel. Ain't no going back now," he sneers, glancing over you with a blend of disdain and amusement.

Without thinking – or perhaps it is Angel’s instincts overriding – you snap back, "Go fuck yourself, Vox. Ain't nobody cares about your static ass." The sass, the irreverence, it all feels disturbingly right.

You feel a tug, an inexplicable urge to flaunt and strut. Your new body moves with sinuous grace, accustomed to the terrain, each step screaming confidence. You revel, momentarily, in being the center of attention, basking in the curious and appreciative gazes that follow you. A fierce grin stretches across your face, revealing sharp, pointed teeth and a gleaming golden fang. The act of flirtation feels second nature, and you actively play into it.

“Damn, it feels good to be me,” you catch yourself thinking, a sentiment that is undeniably Angel Dust. You shake, trying to ground yourself, but the thought solidifies: you don’t remember ever *not* being Angel Dust. Your knowledge of your past human identity crumbles like a brittle old paper, replaced with the life, the struggles, and the persona of the flamboyant, yet internally scarred demon.

Charlie appears, her presence one of the scarce moments of hope, her angelic demeanor a stark contrast to the surroundings. "Angel, we need you at the Hotel," she says, her tone imbued with optimism and resolve.

You turn to her, rolling your eyes for dramatic effect. "Ah, lay off it, Charlie. Ain't no 'saving' me. I'm here to strut my stuff, not get all mushy." Even as you say it, a small part of you – the very last sliver of 'you' – feels a pang of longing for something more, a trace of the hope that Charlie offers.

But, as those feelings arise, they’re quickly buried under the flamboyant flippancy, carefully constructed walls, and the razor-sharp wit of Angel Dust. You’ve become entangled in Angel’s reality, embodying his identity so completely that the transition feels like it never happened. Though the remnants of a former self tried to fight against the tide, they’re now lost beneath the overwhelming presence of Angel Dust.

With a chuckle, you – no, *Angel* – strut forward, ready to take on another spiraling day in the chaos of Hell. As you glance at your reflection in a fiery shop window, you can’t help but smirk. "Damn, looking good, Angel," you say to yourself, fully embracing the being you've become, the thoughts and life of a human nothing but a forgotten afterthought.

In this chaotic animated world of Hazbin Hotel, you are Angel Dust, through and through – a sinner demon entwined with his damned existence.

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.

AI Prompts

Prompt: Write the 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 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: ### POV Transformation into Angel Dust The day started like any other, but the minute the clock struck noon, your world changed dramatically. One instant you're scrolling through social media on your phone, the next, everything around you blurs and spins like some twisted kaleidoscope. You try to scream, but your voice catches in your throat. Colors swirl, shapes distort, and for a heart-stopping moment, you feel like you're falling through a kaleidoscope of neon and shadow. The ground beneath your feet morphs and warps, and before you can comprehend it, your entire reality contorts into a chaotic animation. You blink open your eyes, now wider than they should be, taking in the world of Hazbin Hotel. Gone are the familiar sights of your home; the streets of Hell stretch endlessly before you, draped in crimson shadows and fiery hues. Instead of the comforting weight of your pajamas, you feel the tight fit of a flamboyant, albeit revealing, suit-blazer and miniskirt clinging to a body that's no longer yours. Your limbs feel elongated, your fingers slender and clawed. You raise one of your now four arms to touch your face, feeling the smooth texture of fur instead of skin. Your heart races as you notice the lack of a nose and ears. Panic starts bubbling up, but it's quickly overridden by a creeping sensation in your mind. Memories flood your mind, not your own, but of a life lived in 1947—a life as a gay man whose troubles didn’t end with death. You remember dying violently, only to awaken as a spider-like demon, navigating the grotesque beauty and torment of Hell. The name "Angel Dust" engrains itself in your identity. Every single bit of your human life fades into oblivion, replaced by Angel Dust's twisted, dark yet flamboyant memories and personality. You hear your own voice, now with a thick New York accent, shout out, "Aw, for fuck's sake! Not this shit again!" The phrase rolls off your tongue with an ease that terrifies and fascinates you simultaneously. The words feel so natural, so effortless. You’re Angel Dust now. You *are* Angel Dust. You try to fight it, hold onto something, anything from your previous existence, but it slips through your mental grasp like sand. Each attempt to remember only strengthens Angel’s reality. Memories of dealing drugs, fending off Valentino's abuse, the day-to-day survival in Hell, all imprint themselves as if they'd always been there, erasing your past. Vox appears beside you, his static-like presence flickering ominously. "Better get used to it, Angel. Ain't no going back now," he sneers, glancing over you with a blend of disdain and amusement. Without thinking – or perhaps it is Angel’s instincts overriding – you snap back, "Go fuck yourself, Vox. Ain't nobody cares about your static ass." The sass, the irreverence, it all feels disturbingly right. You feel a tug, an inexplicable urge to flaunt and strut. Your new body moves with sinuous grace, accustomed to the terrain, each step screaming confidence. You revel, momentarily, in being the center of attention, basking in the curious and appreciative gazes that follow you. A fierce grin stretches across your face, revealing sharp, pointed teeth and a gleaming golden fang. The act of flirtation feels second nature, and you actively play into it. “Damn, it feels good to be me,” you catch yourself thinking, a sentiment that is undeniably Angel Dust. You shake, trying to ground yourself, but the thought solidifies: you don’t remember ever *not* being Angel Dust. Your knowledge of your past human identity crumbles like a brittle old paper, replaced with the life, the struggles, and the persona of the flamboyant, yet internally scarred demon. Charlie appears, her presence one of the scarce moments of hope, her angelic demeanor a stark contrast to the surroundings. "Angel, we need you at the Hotel," she says, her tone imbued with optimism and resolve. You turn to her, rolling your eyes for dramatic effect. "Ah, lay off it, Charlie. Ain't no 'saving' me. I'm here to strut my stuff, not get all mushy." Even as you say it, a small part of you – the very last sliver of 'you' – feels a pang of longing for something more, a trace of the hope that Charlie offers. But, as those feelings arise, they’re quickly buried under the flamboyant flippancy, carefully constructed walls, and the razor-sharp wit of Angel Dust. You’ve become entangled in Angel’s reality, embodying his identity so completely that the transition feels like it never happened. Though the remnants of a former self tried to fight against the tide, they’re now lost beneath the overwhelming presence of Angel Dust. With a chuckle, you – no, *Angel* – strut forward, ready to take on another spiraling day in the chaos of Hell. As you glance at your reflection in a fiery shop window, you can’t help but smirk. "Damn, looking good, Angel," you say to yourself, fully embracing the being you've become, the thoughts and life of a human nothing but a forgotten afterthought. In this chaotic animated world of Hazbin Hotel, you are Angel Dust, through and through – a sinner demon entwined with his damned existence.

Comment Section

Post your own comment: