The world around you begins to shift and twist, the familiar surroundings of your room dissolving into a dark, vibrant whirl of neon lights and heavy shadows. Your body starts to tremble, pulled apart and reformed by an unseen force. You try to scream, but your voice is trapped within your changing form.
The first thing you notice is your hands. They elongate, covered in white fur, tipped with sharp, cerise pink claws. The sensation sends chills down your spine, but there’s no time to dwell on it as your limbs continue to stretch and morph. Your torso elongates, your waist pinching inward while your chest pushes outward into an exaggerated, fluffy prominence beneath a tight pink blazer. You catch a glimpse of your reflection in a nearby cracked mirror; splotches of light pink fur now cover your face and body, your eyes wide and cerise pink with mismatched sclera.
"Oh shoot," you gasp, the sound emerging in a grating, distinctly New York accent dripping with sarcasm and bravado.
As the transformation accelerates, your new outfit materializes: a mini-skirt clinging to your hips, thigh-high heeled boots making you stand at an imposing eight feet, a bowtie, and a choker tight around your elongated neck. Multiple arms shoot from your sides, encased in alternating patterns of gloves that feel both foreign and natural at the same time.
"Damn, this suit tightens in all the right places," a voice, your voice, muses. Panic rises as you realize these thoughts are not entirely your own; they're tinted with a brazen, flirtatious energy that feels alien yet familiar.
You look around, trying to piece together the scattered remnants of your memories, fighting desperately against the influx of new, overwhelming ones. Walls covered in gaudy, grotesque wallpaper stretch before you, and voices echo in the distance, voices you recognize but shouldn't.
"Hey, Angel! Stop gawking and get your ass moving, Valentino doesn't pay you to stand around!"
The name hits you like a lightning bolt. Angel? Valentino? Part of you recognizes these names. Desperately, you cling to your fading memories, but they dissolve like sand through your fingers. Faces and places from a human life blur and vanish, replaced by a gritty world of neon lights, sin, and despair.
"I'm comin', I'm comin'. Shit, no need to get your panties in a twist," you retort, the words slipping out effortlessly with a familiar, sarcastic lilt. You wince, trying to grasp at the last shreds of your fading identity, but your efforts are futile. Your human memories are gone, replaced with a lifetime of experiences as this demon—died in 1947, came to Hell, and lived as Angel Dust.
Walking through the lavishly decrepit halls of the VVV tower, seemingly leaded by Vox, you glide with a newfound confident swagger. Flirty quips and dirty jokes bubble up, and the mental battle fades into a murky background noise, a haunting reminder of what was once you.
"Yo, Angel! Got a new job for ya!" a familiar, deep voice calls out. It’s Valentino, your boss, and the sight of him triggers a mix of anger, fear, and bizarrely, a sense of normalcy.
You smile, but it’s a practiced, guarded smile. "Val, darling! What's a gal gotta do to get a decent gig 'round these parts?" you purr, slipping into the role with disturbing ease.
As you join him, another denizen chuckles. "Always the joker, eh Angel? What's it like havin' four arms? Bet it comes in handy when slappin' people!"
Your grin widens, masks slipping seamlessly into place. "Oh, honey, it's a fucking riot! Like havin' four legs, but for smacks and smooches," you quip, the snark rolling off your tongue.
Inside, something pangs—a fragment of who you used to be briefly flickering before being swallowed by Angel Dust’s brash persona. You are no longer the reader, the human. You are Angel Dust, the sinner demon, wrapped in glamour, chaos, and a dangerously guarded heart.
Reality solidifies around you; the Hazbin Hotel suffocates the last remnants of your former self. All that remains is the flamboyant spider demon, navigating Hell’s treacherous pleasures with a grin, sharp wit, and an underlying longing for redemption that seems just out of reach.
In the world of Hazbin, where sins and desires collide, you’ve found your twisted place. And no one—not even yourself—remembers the person you once were. Only Angel Dust remains, dancing on the edge of survival with style, sass, and a hint of sorrow hidden beneath layers of bravado.
"Stay fabulous, babes," you say to the distorted figure in the cracked mirror, blowing a kiss with a smirk, as if daring the world to see beyond the show.
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.
Prompt: Write the 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), 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: The world around you begins to shift and twist, the familiar surroundings of your room dissolving into a dark, vibrant whirl of neon lights and heavy shadows. Your body starts to tremble, pulled apart and reformed by an unseen force. You try to scream, but your voice is trapped within your changing form. The first thing you notice is your hands. They elongate, covered in white fur, tipped with sharp, cerise pink claws. The sensation sends chills down your spine, but there’s no time to dwell on it as your limbs continue to stretch and morph. Your torso elongates, your waist pinching inward while your chest pushes outward into an exaggerated, fluffy prominence beneath a tight pink blazer. You catch a glimpse of your reflection in a nearby cracked mirror; splotches of light pink fur now cover your face and body, your eyes wide and cerise pink with mismatched sclera. "Oh fuck," you gasp, the sound emerging in a grating, distinctly New York accent dripping with sarcasm and bravado. As the transformation accelerates, your new outfit materializes: a mini-skirt clinging to your hips, thigh-high heeled boots making you stand at an imposing eight feet, a bowtie, and a choker tight around your elongated neck. Multiple arms shoot from your sides, encased in alternating patterns of gloves that feel both foreign and natural at the same time. "Damn, this suit tightens in all the right places," a voice, your voice, muses. Panic rises as you realize these thoughts are not entirely your own; they're tinted with a brazen, flirtatious energy that feels alien yet familiar. You look around, trying to piece together the scattered remnants of your memories, fighting desperately against the influx of new, overwhelming ones. Walls covered in gaudy, grotesque wallpaper stretch before you, and voices echo in the distance, voices you recognize but shouldn't. "Hey, Angel! Stop gawking and get your ass moving, Valentino doesn't pay you to stand around!" The name hits you like a lightning bolt. Angel? Valentino? Part of you recognizes these names. Desperately, you cling to your fading memories, but they dissolve like sand through your fingers. Faces and places from a human life blur and vanish, replaced by a gritty world of neon lights, sin, and despair. "I'm comin', I'm comin'. Sheesh, no need to get your panties in a twist," you retort, the words slipping out effortlessly with a familiar, sarcastic lilt. You wince, trying to grasp at the last shreds of your fading identity, but your efforts are futile. Your human memories are gone, replaced with a lifetime of experiences as this demon—died in 1947, came to Hell, and lived as Angel Dust. Walking through the lavishly decrepit halls of the Hazbin Hotel, you glide with a newfound confident swagger. Flirty quips and dirty jokes bubble up, and the mental battle fades into a murky background noise, a haunting reminder of what was once you. "Yo, Angel! Got a new job for ya!" a familiar, deep voice calls out. It’s Valentino, your boss, and the sight of him triggers a mix of anger, fear, and bizarrely, a sense of normalcy. You smile, but it’s a practiced, guarded smile. "Val, darling! What's a gal gotta do to get a decent gig 'round these parts?" you purr, slipping into the role with disturbing ease. As you join him, another denizen chuckles. "Always the joker, eh Angel? What's it like havin' four arms? Bet it comes in handy when slappin' people!" Your grin widens, masks slipping seamlessly into place. "Oh, honey, it's a riot! Like havin' four legs, but for smacks and smooches," you quip, the snark rolling off your tongue. Inside, something pangs—a fragment of who you used to be briefly flickering before being swallowed by Angel Dust’s brash persona. You are no longer the reader, the human. You are Angel Dust, the sinner demon, wrapped in glamour, chaos, and a dangerously guarded heart. Reality solidifies around you; the Hazbin Hotel suffocates the last remnants of your former self. All that remains is the flamboyant spider demon, navigating Hell’s treacherous pleasures with a grin, sharp wit, and an underlying longing for redemption that seems just out of reach. In the world of Hazbin, where sins and desires collide, you’ve found your twisted place. And no one—not even yourself—remembers the person you once were. Only Angel Dust remains, dancing on the edge of survival with style, sass, and a hint of sorrow hidden beneath layers of bravado. "Stay fabulous, babes," you say to the distorted figure in the cracked mirror, blowing a kiss with a smirk, as if daring the world to see beyond the show.
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