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**Infernal Metamorphosis into Angel Dust**

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### Transformation in Hell

“Great,” you mutter as you step into your room, realizing that your phone is dead and with it, your plans to binge-watch your favorite show, **Hazbin Hotel**. You couldn't even escape to that twisted paradise if you tried. With a heavy sigh, you set your phone on the nightstand and collapse onto your bed, the weight of modern life tingling every painful nerve.

As you drift into sleep, something feels wrong.

Your eyes blink open against your will. The room around you melts and morphs, colors twisting into neon flares and dark shadows. The air changes, dense and heavy with the taste of fury and sulfur.

Confusion knots in your gut. What's happening? Where are you?

You try to speak, only to choke on a laugh that is not yours. Your reflection gazes back at you from every angle—eight feet tall, dressed in a suit blazer with horizontal stripes, and fluffy white fur with pink splotches.

"What the fuck?" you shout, the words edged with a thick New York accent. The room spins as you adjust to your towering height. You glance down, watching your limbs grow slender and multiply. Four arms clad in mismatched gloves—a cerise pink pair on top, a white pair below. The lower set of gloves clench, extending sharp nails.

The world around you flickers again, shaping into the mismatched architecture and dark charm of **Hell**.

A cackle erupts from your lips, unbidden. Memories uncoil in your mind, memories that aren't yours: a life ended in 1947, becoming a spider-like demon who goes by "Angel Dust." The more you resist, the more they fill you, pushing out your life, your reality.

"Valentino's gonna be pissed if I don't show." You smirk, feeling a surge of fear and excitement. Valentino's looming presence is more than just a boss; it’s a constant strain. You fight to hold onto your own thoughts, but they’re slipping through your fingers, replaced with Angel’s cocky bravado and relentless sarcasm.

“Well, well, look who’s back in the gutter, darling,” a smooth, disembodied voice echoes. You turn instinctively to see **Vox**, a tall, thin demon with glowing TV screens for a face.

"Screw off, Vox," you spit, smirking. "Don’t you have some dumb channel to hawk?"

Vox grins maliciously, the screen fuzzing with static. “Valentino’s looking for you. Better not keep him waiting.”

You shiver at the mention, softly whispering to yourself, "Fuck," and make your way through the twisted streets, recognizing each decrepit building and twisted alley. Memories pour in, solidifying your sense of belonging in this hellish landscape. Distant screams and the flicker of neon lights cast grotesque shadows on your path.

Before you know it, you're standing before Valentino, the powerful overlord who revels in power and control. His tall frame and neon-enhanced presence dominate the room, his aura suffocating and chilling.

"Angel, darling, you're late," Valentino's voice is dangerous, silky smooth.

“Yeah, yeah, Valentino. I’m here, ain’t I?” you reply, your voice daring yet internally rattled.

Valentino’s eyes narrow, and in that second, you sense both the terror and arousal he embodies. “Watch that mouth unless you want it stitched shut.”

Running your tongue over your sharp teeth, you smirk. “Guess I'm just screwed every which way, aren’t I?”

Even though memories of your former life fade completely, Angel Dust's identity fills you—sarcastic, tough, yet profoundly bruised. There are moments the façade cracks, showing the true sensitive and insecure self beneath. But you’ve learned to mask it well.

Hell is suffocating, yet it's all you’ve ever known. The world behind you is an incomprehensible mystery now—erased, forgotten. You glance around, the details of the demon city concrete in your mind. You know every soul-crushing corner and irrelevant street.

There’s a part of you, deep down, that still hopes for redemption. For now, though, all you can do is navigate the twisted realm of hell with that cocky grin and sharp-tongued retorts.

It's all you know. And it's all you ever will know.

"Let's get this show on the road, Valentino," you snarl, stepping forward, each movement an embodiment of Angel Dust's flamboyant bravado. “Don’t get your antennae in a twist.”

Valentino's dark laughter echoes through you, enveloping that last remnant of your human essence. But you can’t care. Not when you’ve got demons to taunt and Hell to survive.

Your final human thought vanishes as Angel Dust fully takes over, leaving you to face this corrupt world with impeccable style and limitless cynicism.

In Hell, the show must always go on.

This story was generated by user JesterImps2 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 (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 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: ### Transformation in Hell “Great,” you mutter as you step into your room, realizing that your phone is dead and with it, your plans to binge-watch your favorite show, **Hazbin Hotel**. You couldn't even escape to that twisted paradise if you tried. With a heavy sigh, you set your phone on the nightstand and collapse onto your bed, the weight of modern life tingling every painful nerve. As you drift into sleep, something feels wrong. Your eyes blink open against your will. The room around you melts and morphs, colors twisting into neon flares and dark shadows. The air changes, dense and heavy with the taste of fury and sulfur. Confusion knots in your gut. What's happening? Where are you? You try to speak, only to choke on a laugh that is not yours. Your reflection gazes back at you from every angle—eight feet tall, dressed in a suit blazer with horizontal stripes, and fluffy white fur with pink splotches. "What the fuck?" you shout, the words edged with a thick New York accent. The room spins as you adjust to your towering height. You glance down, watching your limbs grow slender and multiply. Four arms clad in mismatched gloves—a cerise pink pair on top, a white pair below. The lower set of gloves clench, extending sharp nails. The world around you flickers again, shaping into the mismatched architecture and dark charm of **Hell**. A cackle erupts from your lips, unbidden. Memories uncoil in your mind, memories that aren't yours: a life ended in 1947, becoming a spider-like demon who goes by "Angel Dust." The more you resist, the more they fill you, pushing out your life, your reality. "Valentino's gonna be pissed if I don't show." You smirk, feeling a surge of fear and excitement. Valentino's looming presence is more than just a boss; it’s a constant strain. You fight to hold onto your own thoughts, but they’re slipping through your fingers, replaced with Angel’s cocky bravado and relentless sarcasm. “Well, well, look who’s back in the gutter, darling,” a smooth, disembodied voice echoes. You turn instinctively to see **Vox**, a tall, thin demon with glowing TV screens for a face. "Screw off, Vox," you spit, smirking. "Don’t you have some dumb channel to hawk?" Vox grins maliciously, the screen fuzzing with static. “Valentino’s looking for you. Better not keep him waiting.” You shiver at the mention, softly whispering to yourself, "Fuck," and make your way through the twisted streets, recognizing each decrepit building and twisted alley. Memories pour in, solidifying your sense of belonging in this hellish landscape. Distant screams and the flicker of neon lights cast grotesque shadows on your path. Before you know it, you're standing before Valentino, the powerful overlord who revels in power and control. His tall frame and neon-enhanced presence dominate the room, his aura suffocating and chilling. "Angel, darling, you're late," Valentino's voice is dangerous, silky smooth. “Yeah, yeah, Valentino. I’m here, ain’t I?” you reply, your voice daring yet internally rattled. Valentino’s eyes narrow, and in that second, you sense both the terror and arousal he embodies. “Watch that mouth unless you want it stitched shut.” Running your tongue over your sharp teeth, you smirk. “Guess I'm just screwed every which way, aren’t I?” Even though memories of your former life fade completely, Angel Dust's identity fills you—sarcastic, tough, yet profoundly bruised. There are moments the façade cracks, showing the true sensitive and insecure self beneath. But you’ve learned to mask it well. Hell is suffocating, yet it's all you’ve ever known. The world behind you is an incomprehensible mystery now—erased, forgotten. You glance around, the details of the demon city concrete in your mind. You know every soul-crushing corner and irrelevant street. There’s a part of you, deep down, that still hopes for redemption. For now, though, all you can do is navigate the twisted realm of hell with that cocky grin and sharp-tongued retorts. It's all you know. And it's all you ever will know. "Let's get this show on the road, Valentino," you snarl, stepping forward, each movement an embodiment of Angel Dust's flamboyant bravado. “Don’t get your antennae in a twist.” Valentino's dark laughter echoes through you, enveloping that last remnant of your human essence. But you can’t care. Not when you’ve got demons to taunt and Hell to survive. Your final human thought vanishes as Angel Dust fully takes over, leaving you to face this corrupt world with impeccable style and limitless cynicism. In Hell, the show must always go on.

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