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"Bound in Hazbin Hotel: Surreal Transformation into Angel Dust"

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You blink, perhaps a bit too hard considering the day you're having. The world around you abruptly blurs and morphs; your once-familiar surroundings ripple with an array of vivid, dazzling colors. Cartoony buildings spring upwards, twisting into unsettling yet oddly captivating art nouveau shapes. Familiarity bleeds out of sight as you find yourself adrift in a surreal, animated cityscape.

“What the heck?” Your voice cracks, sounding strained and unfamiliar, like it doesn't quite belong to you anymore.

The heaviness hits you next. Your clothes constrict and compress, shifting texture in an almost sentient manner. Your jeans and t-shirt meld into a red-gray miniskirt paired with an immaculately tight light pink suit-blazer with white stripes. The sensations are overwhelming; fabric stretches, stitches pull at your skin, every abrasion marks the terrifying shift.

In the midst of everything, you feel your body twisting. If you're female, your breasts press inward until they flatten entirely, stirring a tumultuous inner sensation. Your other private parts shift, mirroring an inversion before an agonizing push outwards. Familiarity flees as your body reconfigures into something unmistakably masculine but slender, your height skyrocketing to unnerving proportions. Each slight hum, every new curve feels alien – yet they are undeniably becoming yours.

You catch a glimpse of a reflection in a cracked storefront window, now fully appreciating just how bizarrely long your torso and legs have become – easily over eight feet tall. Words catch in your throat, but the voice that comes out is masculine, brash, and abrasive.

“What the fuck… what is happening to me?”

The sheer strangeness dissolves as memory hazes overtly reminiscent, hyper-pitched with riots of color and unfamiliar sensations. Angel Dust's voice, harsh and dripping with sarcasm, infuses your thoughts, bits and pieces plugging together memories you know cannot be yours yet wedge themselves insidiously within your mind.

“N-no!” You stammer. Terrified, you fight back, trying desperately to cling to the scraps of your own self. But sharp thoughts forge through like claws.

Your morality, your life as a normal human - it’s being pried from you, eerily displaced and turning ethereal. Espionage by memories of a sinful past in Hell takes firm root instead. Faces spring to your mind: a domineering Valentino lording over you, smirks from the sleazy faces of folks you worked with, a name – Anthony – from long past. It all embeds insistently, shifting away the essence of who you were just seconds ago.

“Fuck this, it's all bullshit!” you – or maybe Angel Dust – shout, tone pitched with the streetwise edge of a New York scoundrel.

The undertone of fear transitions in your mind while the voice, smooth and insinuating, inscribes itself with a devilish charm. “This is who you are, darling. You're no mundane thing. You’re Angel Dust, doll face.”

You’re entranced. The whispering words convince you just as much as vivid visions – working in the decadent, sinful underbelly of Hell, wrapped with events you can’t place yourself logically in. Addictive tendencies toward drugs and meaningless affection spin in your conscience, chiseling away lingering resistance but leaving scars of brash and starkly contrasting personality traits.

Moments later, understanding punctuates your terror with dangerous lucidity.

You've become brash, sarcastic. It’s too real yet locks into place. You can swear eloquently, verse bad-language, something you once avoided. Every bit of former correlation as a mundane person bleeds ostracized into oblivion.

“Fucking-A, who else would I be if not Angel Dust?” You find yourself laughing, gritting through residual puzzle pieces of old memories – an amalgamation of resistance lingering fleetingly.

The instrumentation strikes warm within your now fully spun head. You feel eager love for what Angel loves – whether the color pink, pranking, flirting or scraping, it’s innately yours. Valentino’s contractual ownership becomes disturbingly understood; the thorough drowning addiction, escapist humor you exercised performing with a perverse product line holds melancholic power over your thoughts. It feels honest, concrete.

There’s no recognition of anything else grounding you back in singularly pitched realism.

Hell - Pentagram City - is alive around you as fact. You belong here, intricately webbed within its framework.

**"Angel? What the fuck are you doing here?"** Hazbin Hotel inhabitants, familiar and exasperated, voice it. Tentative thoughts of anything before extraneously scramble, laughed away by brash ticks and brio.

The transformation is complete; you finally welcome yourself. Angel Dust at large, expressive in this crassly vivid world.

You - Angel – couldn’t picture yourself otherwise. This trivial dream concluded - best not to dwell.

You bound forward, welcomed back amid Pandemonium, fitting in perfectly.

Really, you know, you always did.

This story was generated by user DylanVsFizzarolli6 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 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, her breasts flattens to nonexistence as her body feels more masculine, while retaining the curves to fit her new self as Angel Dust, and her female genitals (vagina, ovaries, and uterus) inverts itself before pushing out into testicles and a penis; however, this is only optional and only if the reader is a female), instant clothes change (the reader's clothes instantly changes into Angel Dust's outfit), 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), voice change (the reader's voice changes into Angel Dust's voice), 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 instead he remembers ever being a sinner demon who died as a human man somewhere in 1947, and he remembers being a spider-like demon of Hell named "Angel Dust" ever since his mortal human death on Earth, and has since become a popular adults film actor (such as for sex films, etc)). 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. He also has four fingers (like all Hazbin Hotel and Helluva Boss characters), unlike real world humans. 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). Here is Angel Dust's personality; he 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, popsicles, 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 him, 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. Here is Angel Dust's history (according to the Hazbin Hotel series); Anthony was born (when he was a human) on April 1st alongside his twin sister, Molly, in the early 20th century. He came from an Italian mob family in New York City. He died in his early-mid 30s in 1947 following a drug overdose. Upon entering Hell as a sinner demon, Anthony quickly became involved in sex work, cutting ties with his family's mob-related activities, and adopted the name "Angel Dust". He eventually met and signed a contract with Valentino. This gave Valentino ownership of Angel's soul and put him under his employment at his porn studio, which allowed Angel to eventually become one of the biggest adult film superstars in Hell. Continuing to drown out his world with narcotics and sex along with his twisted sense of humor, Angel followed a path of self-destruction to cope and in the hope that if he ruined himself enough Valentino would no longer want him as "his favorite toy" and release him from their contract. Angel at some point starred in a kidnapping BDSM film which won him a "Sex-x-xi" award over another actress, Tiffany Titfucker. At some point, Angel Dust was gifted a demon pig named Fat Nuggets from Valentino. The story is that the reader is minding his/her business, but then the world around him/her warps/changes into Pentagram City, located in the Pride Ring of Hell, as depicted in the adults cartoon/animated series "Hazbin Hotel" before his/her body started to change. After the reader (now truly a male if the reader was a female before the change) had fully transformed, he is confused, but then his mind becomes cloudy/foggy/fuzzy as he starts losing his previous personality and gaining a new personality (he's scared of his personality being replaced), making him homosexual, brash, and sarcastic, with a quick, sharp wit, often with bad/strong language (including, but not limited to f-bomb words), with these personality traits forcing into him against his will, however they become natural as if part of him. His memories are also being replaced with those of Angel Dust's, making him terrified of losing himself, as he starts remembering everything about Angel Dust's history, preferences, etc. During his horror, a voice tells him that this is who he really is and that he was never just a mundane person, telling him that he had always been Anthony (now named Angel Dust after arriving in Hell as a sinner demon), as well as always having been gay and loving sex, as well as loving drugs, being abrasive, pranks, getting into scraps, cooking, flirting, popsicles, the color pink, monetary gain, and Italian food, despite the reader's best efforts on fighting off the mind/mental changes (he's scared of losing his personality and memories, so he tells himself to not forget about himself). The voice then tells the reader that the life he remembers was not real (it was just a daydream he got lost in), and it is impossible for him to have been a human seconds ago (since he died in 1947), before the voice tells/encourages the reader to remember who he really/truly is (Angel Dust) and the reader starts to believe and trust the voice inside his head, and he realizes (or rather knows) that he is indeed Angel Dust and he was never someone who was mundane (which he realized/knew was only a strange daydream he just had; that was impossible for him to have been human just moments ago, since he died in 1947 and has been a sinner demon since then, so he questions on why he dreamt that so he quickly forgets all about that ever occurring and continues his afterlife). There should also be quotes from the characters in this story (including quotes from the reader) so we know what they are saying and what they are thinking (including profanities/swears/strong language/bad language, such as "fuck", "shit", "bitch", and many others that are used/said by Angel Dust, Vox, Valentino, etc, but the human reader doesn't use profanities/swears unlike Angel Dust, who the human reader transforms into, and he won't use bad language until his personality changes and makes him start swearing, becoming completely natural to him). 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: You blink, perhaps a bit too hard considering the day you're having. The world around you abruptly blurs and morphs; your once-familiar surroundings ripple with an array of vivid, dazzling colors. Cartoony buildings spring upwards, twisting into unsettling yet oddly captivating art nouveau shapes. Familiarity bleeds out of sight as you find yourself adrift in a surreal, animated cityscape. “What the heck?” Your voice cracks, sounding strained and unfamiliar, like it doesn't quite belong to you anymore. The heaviness hits you next. Your clothes constrict and compress, shifting texture in an almost sentient manner. Your jeans and t-shirt meld into a red-gray miniskirt paired with an immaculately tight light pink suit-blazer with white stripes. The sensations are overwhelming; fabric stretches, stitches pull at your skin, every abrasion marks the terrifying shift. In the midst of everything, you feel your body twisting. If you're female, your breasts press inward until they flatten entirely, stirring a tumultuous inner sensation. Your other private parts shift, mirroring an inversion before an agonizing push outwards. Familiarity flees as your body reconfigures into something unmistakably masculine but slender, your height skyrocketing to unnerving proportions. Each slight hum, every new curve feels alien – yet they are undeniably becoming yours. You catch a glimpse of a reflection in a cracked storefront window, now fully appreciating just how bizarrely long your torso and legs have become – easily over eight feet tall. Words catch in your throat, but the voice that comes out is masculine, brash, and abrasive. “What the fuck… what is happening to me?” The sheer strangeness dissolves as memory hazes overtly reminiscent, hyper-pitched with riots of color and unfamiliar sensations. Angel Dust's voice, harsh and dripping with sarcasm, infuses your thoughts, bits and pieces plugging together memories you know cannot be yours yet wedge themselves insidiously within your mind. “N-no!” You stammer. Terrified, you fight back, trying desperately to cling to the scraps of your own self. But sharp thoughts forge through like claws. Your morality, your life as a normal human - it’s being pried from you, eerily displaced and turning ethereal. Espionage by memories of a sinful past in Hell takes firm root instead. Faces spring to your mind: a domineering Valentino lording over you, smirks from the sleazy faces of folks you worked with, a name – Anthony – from long past. It all embeds insistently, shifting away the essence of who you were just seconds ago. “Fuck this, it's all bullshit!” you – or maybe Angel Dust – shout, tone pitched with the streetwise edge of a New York scoundrel. The undertone of fear transitions in your mind while the voice, smooth and insinuating, inscribes itself with a devilish charm. “This is who you are, darling. You're no mundane thing. You’re Angel Dust, doll face.” You’re entranced. The whispering words convince you just as much as vivid visions – working in the decadent, sinful underbelly of Hell, wrapped with events you can’t place yourself logically in. Addictive tendencies toward drugs and meaningless affection spin in your conscience, chiseling away lingering resistance but leaving scars of brash and starkly contrasting personality traits. Moments later, understanding punctuates your terror with dangerous lucidity. You've become brash, sarcastic. It’s too real yet locks into place. You can swear eloquently, verse bad-language, something you once avoided. Every bit of former correlation as a mundane person bleeds ostracized into oblivion. “Fucking-A, who else would I be if not Angel Dust?” You find yourself laughing, gritting through residual puzzle pieces of old memories – an amalgamation of resistance lingering fleetingly. The instrumentation strikes warm within your now fully spun head. You feel eager love for what Angel loves – whether the color pink, pranking, flirting or scraping, it’s innately yours. Valentino’s contractual ownership becomes disturbingly understood; the thorough drowning addiction, escapist humor you exercised performing with a perverse product line holds melancholic power over your thoughts. It feels honest, concrete. There’s no recognition of anything else grounding you back in singularly pitched realism. Hell - Pentagram City - is alive around you as fact. You belong here, intricately webbed within its framework. **"Angel? What the fuck are you doing here?"** Hazbin Hotel inhabitants, familiar and exasperated, voice it. Tentative thoughts of anything before extraneously scramble, laughed away by brash ticks and brio. The transformation is complete; you finally welcome yourself. Angel Dust at large, expressive in this crassly vivid world. You - Angel – couldn’t picture yourself otherwise. This trivial dream concluded - best not to dwell. You bound forward, welcomed back amid Pandemonium, fitting in perfectly. Really, you know, you always did.

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