### Transfiguration of a Sinner
The world around you shifts and warps in a kaleidoscope of colors. One moment, you're a regular person, living your normal life. The next, you feel a jolt through your entire being, like your very essence is being rewritten. You struggle to keep your eyes open as the world spirals and fades to shades of red, black, and white.
You land on your hands and knees, but something is wrong. Your limbs don't feel right. With a gasp, you look down to see white furry hands tipped with claws, dressed in long cerise-pink gloves. A sharp pang radiates through your head, and you wince. The reflection in the puddle before you reveals an entirely different face. Fluffy white hair with light-pink splotches, a heart pattern on the back of your head, and cerise-pink eyes staring back at you, one with a light yellow sclera, the other dark.
"Wh-what the hell?!" The words slip out of your newfound sharp-toothed mouth, the voice that escapes is raspy and distinctly New York-accented. You scramble backward, your taller frame uncoordinated and wobbling. You glance down at your attire— a light pink striped blazer, miniskirt, and heeled boots. Four arms, suited in cerise-pink and white gloves, extend from your torso.
"What's happening to me?" you mentally scream, but the words barely form as the memories flood in. The more you try to hold onto your past, the faster it vanishes, replaced by images of an old-timey New York, seedy clubs, and smoky lounges.
Suddenly, names and faces start populating your mind. Valentino. Vox. Cherri Bomb. The Hazbin Hotel. Images of demonic creatures and vivid, hellish landscapes overwrite what you knew of suburban settings and everyday chores. You cling to the last string of your former self, only for it to be snatched away in a heartbeat.
"Ah, there you are, Angel," a slick, smooth voice pulls you from your spiraling thoughts. Looking up, you see Valentino, his tall, dark, and imposing figure standing over you.
"Yeah, yeah, Val. Here I am," you—or rather now, Angel Dust—reply, a grin spreading across your face. You can't fight it anymore; the memories, the personality, the very essence of who Angel Dust is has taken over completely. Your previous life, your identity, it's all a forgotten blur.
Valentino smirks, "Thought you were gonna stand me up, sugar."
"Wouldn't fucking dream of it," Angel Dust responds with a sarcastic tone, the internal struggle for control completely gone, replaced by the sinner demon's brash and flamboyant persona.
"Better not," Valentino growls, leaning in threateningly.
Your life from moments ago is now nothing more than a faint echo. You stand up, tower over most with your new eight-foot stature. The hotel around you, with its gothic and yet cartoonish style, feels more like home than any house you remember.
"So, about that job, Val," Angel Dust purrs, twirling one of his long, white gloves while thinking of how to milk the situation to his advantage.
"Just keep your head in the game and don't fuck it up," Valentino's voice becomes a distant growl as you—Angel Dust—float through the oddly comforting hellish nightmare that is now your existence.
With each step, Angel Dust's exaggerated swagger feels more natural than walking ever did. You see a group of demon denizens of Hell and can't help but throw in a playful, "Hey, look at you bunch of ugly freaks!"
They sneer and roll their eyes but their reactions fuel your next move. Every flirt, every sarcastic jab, every playful insult feels like second nature now.
Your mind fully embraces the chaotic, savage beauty of the Hazbin Hotel universe. You may not remember who you were before, but as Angel Dust, you now feel more alive—or dead, rather—than ever before. The sinner demon who died in 1947 lives on, and any trace of your former self is lost in the hellish halls of the Hazbin Hotel.
"Until next time, darlings," you smirk, the words rolling off your tongue as you saunter forward into your new eternal life.
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 the 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: ### Transfiguration of a Sinner The world around you shifts and warps in a kaleidoscope of colors. One moment, you're a regular person, living your normal life. The next, you feel a jolt through your entire being, like your very essence is being rewritten. You struggle to keep your eyes open as the world spirals and fades to shades of red, black, and white. You land on your hands and knees, but something is wrong. Your limbs don't feel right. With a gasp, you look down to see white furry hands tipped with claws, dressed in long cerise-pink gloves. A sharp pang radiates through your head, and you wince. The reflection in the puddle before you reveals an entirely different face. Fluffy white hair with light-pink splotches, a heart pattern on the back of your head, and cerise-pink eyes staring back at you, one with a light yellow sclera, the other dark. "Wh-what the fuck?!" The words slip out of your newfound sharp-toothed mouth, the voice that escapes is raspy and distinctly New York-accented. You scramble backward, your taller frame uncoordinated and wobbling. You glance down at your attire— a light pink striped blazer, miniskirt, and heeled boots. Four arms, suited in cerise-pink and white gloves, extend from your torso. "What's happening to me?" you mentally scream, but the words barely form as the memories flood in. The more you try to hold onto your past, the faster it vanishes, replaced by images of an old-timey New York, seedy clubs, and smoky lounges. Suddenly, names and faces start populating your mind. Valentino. Vox. Cherri Bomb. The Hazbin Hotel. Images of demonic creatures and vivid, hellish landscapes overwrite what you knew of suburban settings and everyday chores. You cling to the last string of your former self, only for it to be snatched away in a heartbeat. "Ah, there you are, Angel," a slick, smooth voice pulls you from your spiraling thoughts. Looking up, you see Valentino, his tall, dark, and imposing figure standing over you. "Yeah, yeah, Val. Here I am," you—or rather now, Angel Dust—reply, a grin spreading across your face. You can't fight it anymore; the memories, the personality, the very essence of who Angel Dust is has taken over completely. Your previous life, your identity, it's all a forgotten blur. Valentino smirks, "Thought you were gonna stand me up, sugar." "Wouldn't dream of it," Angel Dust responds with a sarcastic tone, the internal struggle for control completely gone, replaced by the sinner demon's brash and flamboyant persona. "Better not," Valentino growls, leaning in threateningly. Your life from moments ago is now nothing more than a faint echo. You stand up, tower over most with your new eight-foot stature. The hotel around you, with its gothic and yet cartoonish style, feels more like home than any house you remember. "So, about that job, Val," Angel Dust purrs, twirling one of his long, white gloves while thinking of how to milk the situation to his advantage. "Just keep your head in the game and don't fuck it up," Valentino's voice becomes a distant growl as you—Angel Dust—float through the oddly comforting hellish nightmare that is now your existence. With each step, Angel Dust's exaggerated swagger feels more natural than walking ever did. You see a group of demon denizens of Hell and can't help but throw in a playful, "Hey, look at you bunch of ugly freaks!" They sneer and roll their eyes but their reactions fuel your next move. Every flirt, every sarcastic jab, every playful insult feels like second nature now. Your mind fully embraces the chaotic, savage beauty of the Hazbin Hotel universe. You may not remember who you were before, but as Angel Dust, you now feel more alive—or dead, rather—than ever before. The sinner demon who died in 1947 lives on, and any trace of your former self is lost in the hellish halls of the Hazbin Hotel. "Until next time, darlings," you smirk, the words rolling off your tongue as you saunter forward into your new eternal life.
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