You watch the television screen as your favorite show, Hazbin Hotel, flickers to life. It's a quiet evening, and you think you'll enjoy relaxing with some cartoons. The world around you is familiar, the static glow from the screen soothing as you sink into your couch. But as your favorite character, Angel Dust, struts into view, something odd happens.
The room begins to twist, colors smearing across your vision. The images on the screen seem to leap out, wrapping you in a psychedelic embrace. You panic, hand reaching out to the solid armrest that is no longer solid. Your vision blurs as the boundaries between yourself and the screen dissolve, and you are plunged into an animated world.
Pentagram City sprawls before you, in all its dark, grimy glory. The brick buildings, neon sin and debauchery at every corner, are drawn in the uniquely jarring Hazbin Hotel art style. You're no longer in your living room on Earth; this is Hell.
You glance down and realize something even stranger. Your clothes are shifting, your skin morphing. A warmth blossoms through your chest, but this warmth is quickly replaced by a prickling sensation. Your body stretches, tormenting agony mixing with an odd thrill as you grow taller. Your legs elongate, torso extending until you stand at an unexpected eight feet tall in high-heeled boots.
The more you change, the more alien you feel. Your fingers lose one of their digits, transforming into four spindly limbs, your skin paling and sprouting white fur spotted with light-pink. A prominently fluffy chest pushes forth, mimicking the appearance of breasts beneath a pin-striped, light pink blazer. Your reflection in a glass window across the street reveals cerise pink eyes, surrounded by thick lashes, with mismatched sclera – one light yellow, the other dark.
A pulse of light-headedness forces you to clutch your head, yet the moment your hands touch your face, you feel the broadening of a sharp, mischievous grin. Your teeth become pointed and sharp, a single golden fang glittering ominously.
"What's... happening to me?" you whimper, your voice a blend of familiar tones.
A rogue explosion of sensations in your lower abdomen clarifies in a nightmarish shift as your pelvis shifts its structure. Female organs invert and shift, a distinct yet painful sensation. If you had once been a female, those breasts flattening to fluffy fur feels bizarrely intimate yet quickly unfamiliar. A deep discomfort morphs into an identity displacement: male genitalia resembling what's unmistakably a penis and testicles replace what was formerly you in an irrevocable reality twist. Your body harmonizes disturbingly easily with this new form.
“No! No, this isn’t me!” you shout, but what reaches your ears is Angel Dust’s signature, brash New York accent. “Fuck, what’s going on?!”
Your voice assures you that it is now Angel Dust’s voice echoing out, no longer your own. A flood of alien memories crash through your cranium, shattering what you once knew. You remember being human, a mundane life, love, and preferences. But, just as swiftly, these precious memories—these anchors of reality—are dragged under a flood of new, darker remembrances.
*You're Angel Dust,* a voice whispers seductively within your thoughts. A warm pulse convinces – you're from a mob family, Italian, loved pink, basked in sex and drugs – all from a life you can't truly have lived.
“No, I can’t be! I was—” You gag, the taste of bitter ash on your tongue. “Shit.”
You swear. It's an instinct now, slipping out naturally. Memory shards cut deep: 1947 death, Valentino’s contract, adult film acclaim, and addiction. You try to fight, to claw the vestiges of your own identity... but it's slipping away.
“You love this, you adore the thrill of existing here!” coaxes the voice with a cruel edge.
“No!” Escapes furiously, but you're craving validation, flamboyant excuses, chasing the high of survival and self-destruction as a sinner demon named Angel Dust. It echoes falsely yet feels intertwined with your burgeoning new self.
Beneath that forced deflection of bravado lies vulnerability, walls high to fend off expected betrayals. It aligns eagerly with a humor edged in crass deflection amidst Hell's survival chances. The mundane life melts; Angel Dust’s need for escapism and semblance of control over crumbling abusive constraints settles like an old friend.
“Get out of my head!” you implore, but the gut-snab curl of Angel Dust’s identity superimposes, makes you sag. The human you thought you were feels like ephemeral mist.
“You’re not mundane. You’re Angel Dust. You remember who you are!” urges the voice with seismic certainty.
Resigned, you feel the knowledge solidify—You died in 1947, you've carved a name for yourself in Hell. Memories lock in place, reinforcing who you have become. You cannot fathom that past life of mediocrity anymore. What an odd daydream, you think, returning to your risqué methods to drown out Valentino's bindings.
Pentagram City stretches before you. You're Angel Dust again—always were, always will be. That fleeting madness of serenity is behind you, dismissed as a bizarre but captivating divergence as you dismiss the chimera of a daydream to your very core.
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.
Prompt: Write the 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, her breasts flattens to nonexistence (before her chest pushes out again to form a prominent chest of fluffy fur) 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 small demon pig named Fat Nuggets from Valentino, which Angel Dust loves his pet (Fat Nuggets). 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 (meanwhile he starts swearing, despite him never having swore before), 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 the voice tells him that 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; it is truly impossible for him to have been human just moments ago, since he (Angel Dust) died in the year 1947 and has been a sinner demon since then; his mind becomes clear again as he remembers his real/true self again (his true self is Angel Dust), before he questions on why he dreamt of being a mundane human seconds ago, 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 has changed 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 watch the television screen as your favorite show, Hazbin Hotel, flickers to life. It's a quiet evening, and you think you'll enjoy relaxing with some cartoons. The world around you is familiar, the static glow from the screen soothing as you sink into your couch. But as your favorite character, Angel Dust, struts into view, something odd happens. The room begins to twist, colors smearing across your vision. The images on the screen seem to leap out, wrapping you in a psychedelic embrace. You panic, hand reaching out to the solid armrest that is no longer solid. Your vision blurs as the boundaries between yourself and the screen dissolve, and you are plunged into an animated world. Pentagram City sprawls before you, in all its dark, grimy glory. The brick buildings, neon sin and debauchery at every corner, are drawn in the uniquely jarring Hazbin Hotel art style. You're no longer in your living room on Earth; this is Hell. You glance down and realize something even stranger. Your clothes are shifting, your skin morphing. A warmth blossoms through your chest, but this warmth is quickly replaced by a prickling sensation. Your body stretches, tormenting agony mixing with an odd thrill as you grow taller. Your legs elongate, torso extending until you stand at an unexpected eight feet tall in high-heeled boots. The more you change, the more alien you feel. Your fingers lose one of their digits, transforming into four spindly limbs, your skin paling and sprouting white fur spotted with light-pink. A prominently fluffy chest pushes forth, mimicking the appearance of breasts beneath a pin-striped, light pink blazer. Your reflection in a glass window across the street reveals cerise pink eyes, surrounded by thick lashes, with mismatched sclera – one light yellow, the other dark. A pulse of light-headedness forces you to clutch your head, yet the moment your hands touch your face, you feel the broadening of a sharp, mischievous grin. Your teeth become pointed and sharp, a single golden fang glittering ominously. "What's... happening to me?" you whimper, your voice a blend of familiar tones. A rogue explosion of sensations in your lower abdomen clarifies in a nightmarish shift as your pelvis shifts its structure. Female organs invert and shift, a distinct yet painful sensation. If you had once been a female, those breasts flattening to fluffy fur feels bizarrely intimate yet quickly unfamiliar. A deep discomfort morphs into an identity displacement: male genitalia resembling what's unmistakably a penis and testicles replace what was formerly you in an irrevocable reality twist. Your body harmonizes disturbingly easily with this new form. “No! No, this isn’t me!” you shout, but what reaches your ears is Angel Dust’s signature, brash New York accent. “Fuck, what’s going on?!” Your voice assures you that it is now Angel Dust’s voice echoing out, no longer your own. A flood of alien memories crash through your cranium, shattering what you once knew. You remember being human, a mundane life, love, and preferences. But, just as swiftly, these precious memories—these anchors of reality—are dragged under a flood of new, darker remembrances. *You're Angel Dust,* a voice whispers seductively within your thoughts. A warm pulse convinces – you're from a mob family, Italian, loved pink, basked in sex and drugs – all from a life you can't truly have lived. “No, I can’t be! I was—” You gag, the taste of bitter ash on your tongue. “Shit.” You swear. It's an instinct now, slipping out naturally. Memory shards cut deep: 1947 death, Valentino’s contract, adult film acclaim, and addiction. You try to fight, to claw the vestiges of your own identity... but it's slipping away. “You love this, you adore the thrill of existing here!” coaxes the voice with a cruel edge. “No!” Escapes furiously, but you're craving validation, flamboyant excuses, chasing the high of survival and self-destruction as a sinner demon named Angel Dust. It echoes falsely yet feels intertwined with your burgeoning new self. Beneath that forced deflection of bravado lies vulnerability, walls high to fend off expected betrayals. It aligns eagerly with a humor edged in crass deflection amidst Hell's survival chances. The mundane life melts; Angel Dust’s need for escapism and semblance of control over crumbling abusive constraints settles like an old friend. “Get out of my head!” you implore, but the gut-snab curl of Angel Dust’s identity superimposes, makes you sag. The human you thought you were feels like ephemeral mist. “You’re not mundane. You’re Angel Dust. You remember who you are!” urges the voice with seismic certainty. Resigned, you feel the knowledge solidify—You died in 1947, you've carved a name for yourself in Hell. Memories lock in place, reinforcing who you have become. You cannot fathom that past life of mediocrity anymore. What an odd daydream, you think, returning to your risqué methods to drown out Valentino's bindings. Pentagram City stretches before you. You're Angel Dust again—always were, always will be. That fleeting madness of serenity is behind you, dismissed as a bizarre but captivating divergence as you dismiss the chimera of a daydream to your very core.
AI Prompts: 1
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