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"The Night of Reader becoming Alastor's Tale"

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You were sitting at your desk, a heap of papers spreading disorder around your workspace, mocking your attempts to organize them into something coherent. It's the witching hour, the time when you always felt most alive, most connected to the stories you devoured—until tonight. The darkness outside seemed thicker, oppressive, whispering secrets that felt almost tangible.

As you scrolled through more fanart and fanfiction, another Alastor transformation tale caught your eye. You frowned, a nagging feeling, as if you were being watched, nestled in your gut. Suddenly, the screen flickered, and Alastor himself emerged, the Radio Demon, with that ever-present grin stretched unnaturally wide.

"Good evening, darling," Alastor's voice crackled, its transatlantic accent dripping with mock civility. "It seems you've taken quite the interest in these repugnant little stories, painting me into grotesque caricatures. How droll. How distasteful."

Panic surged through you as Alastor extended a clawed hand towards you from the monitor. Terrified, you tried to pull away, but an unseen force anchored you in place. The digital wall between you and the fictional world ripped apart, and you were plunged headlong into the abyss.

The next thing you knew, you were trembling in the crimson-lit streets of Hell itself, the oppressive heat gnawing at your skin, your breath coming in ragged, shallow bursts. Alastor loomed above you, his monocle glinting ominously.

"Welcome to my domain," his voice blared like a vintage broadcast, reverberating through your bones. "Let's see how you enjoy the transformation now, shall we?"

Before you could scream, his eyes flashed with a dark, eldritch energy, crimson symbols swirling around you. They wrapped around your body like tendrils, tightening, suffocating. You felt your bones stretch painfully, your skin twisting and reshaping. You let out a choked scream as your clothes were ripped apart and reformed into Alastor’s style—eerily familiar.

You tried to hold onto your memories, your identity, but they slipped through your mental fingers like smoke. Words and phrases in a Creole French you'd never known echoed around your skull. You grit your teeth, your mind a battleground of old memories versus the storm of Alastor's formidable presence swarming in.

"_You_ are no more," Alastor's voice thrummed, a cruel symphony against your eardrums. Your height stretched unnaturally to seven feet, muscles and sinews tearing and rebuilding in unimaginable pain while your organs twisted and realigned.

"No!" you managed to gasp, but it came out strangled, distant, as if your voice echoed from within a deep cavern.

Your skin turned an eerie beige, your limbs elongating and slimming down grotesquely. Ebony antlers, sharp and jagged, cracked through your scalp, a bob of pinkish-red hair now falling over your eyes. The shadows danced at Alastor's command, echoing cruel laughter.

"Please, make it stop..."

Your plea barely made it out as your teeth sharpened into yellow fangs, the corners of your mouth stretching into that perpetual, horrifying grin. The scent of burning and decay filled your nostrils as your eyes shifted, the whites draining to obsidian crimson, pupils narrowing to demonic slits.

"Hush now, my dear," Alastor's voice purred, maddeningly close. "You’ll thank me soon enough."

As the transformation neared its completion, memories of a radio show host from 1930s New Orleans flooded your mind—drinking in the smoky jazz bars, the crackling newsroom where you first found your voice over the airwaves, the thrill of control and manipulation. They blended seamlessly, erasing what little remained of the person you once were. You clung to one last memory—a fleeting image of your home, the sound of your previous life mocking you cruelly before slipping into the void.

Once it was over, you found yourself lying prone, a sinister energy pulsating in your veins. Your mind was aflame with Alastor's thoughts, his desires—to entertain, to dominate, to see Hell bend to his will.

"Rise, brother," Alastor commanded, his voice echoing in unison with the new one caged in your throat. "You've been reborn!"

You stood, a seven-foot-tall abomination, an echo of the demon who grinned approvingly beside you. The world looked different now—brighter, ablaze with strange, crimson light. Your shadow moved of its own volition, each passing second erasing any fleeting urge to fight back, to reclaim a self that no longer existed.

"Shall we?"
The question wasn’t just an invitation—it was your new reality.

"Yes, let’s," you heard yourself reply, voice crackling like a vintage broadcast, filled with a dark, delighted energy.

The last fragments of your former life evaporated like morning mist, leaving only the Radio Demon standing in their place, chuckling in harmonious, wicked conjunction.

"Bully!”

This story was generated by user DylanVsFizzarolli5 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 a mortal human reader turning into an identical clone of Alastor (from the adults cartoon/animated series Hazbin Hotel), complete with gender change (if the reader is a female), clothes change, age change (becoming the age of 30s-40s years old, exactly as left off from Alastor's death from his human life in 1933, becoming immortal in the process), height progression (growing from a normal height to 7 feet tall), voice change, and mind/mental change (with the reader's personalities and memories being permanently and completely replaced with Alastor's personality and memories, despite the reader's best efforts of fighting the new personality and memories, making him/her completely forget about his/her past self and only remember being Alastor the Radio Demon). For Alastor's appearance (after the reader turned into his clone), he is a slim (having an unnaturally thin torso, neck, arms, and legs, except his shoulders are broad), dapper sinner demon with beige-colored skin, and usually has an unnaturally broad smile (reaching from each cheek's upper area) full of sharp, yellow teeth (he has no ability to frown due to this permanent smile). He is approximately 7 feet tall. He sports a pinkish-red cropped, angled bob-cut with black tips at the ends and two large, black tipped tufts of hair extending from the top of his head, evoking the ears of a deer. The style has an undercut at the back, and two small black antlers protruding from the crown, which can grow in size in his full demonic form. Alastor's eyes have dark-red sclerae, bright-red irises and thin black pupils (which can change into the shape of radio dials when shifting into his full demon form). His forearms and lower legs fade to dark grey, and he has red hoof-toed feet and red clawed fingers. Alastor wears a red pinstripe coat with dark-red lapels piped with white, which is ragged along the bottom hem. Underneath this he wears a bright red dress-shirt with a black cross on the chest, and long black dress pants with matching bright red cuffs. He also wears a dark-red oval-shaped monocle, rimmed with black, over his right eye. He accessorizes with a black knotted bowtie with a bright red center, black gloves with red at the fingertips, and black pointed-toe boots with red deer hoofprints emblazoned on the soles. Alastor also carries a thin cane with a sentient vintage style microphone attached to it, which he uses to play sound effects and broadcast his voice. His voice also sounds like it is coming from an old-fashioned vintage radio. Alastor has many supernatural powers, such as demon transformation (the ability to turn into a more powerful demon form), flexibility (able to contort his body into numerous unnatural poses), demonic magic (able to cast magic thanks to the high power-level he has accrued in the demon ranking system, this magic takes the visual form of glowing red symbols that resemble Voodoo veve, which float around him), shadow manipulation (able to summon shadows and manipulate them into doing his bidding), spatial warping (able to get around with the help of his shadow, allowing teleportation through this ability), portal creation (able to transport others to his location easily via the portals he makes), pyrokinesis (able to summon small balls of fire for display purpose), phytokinesis (able to make plants wilt with a single stare), manifestation, photokinesis (able to project red glowing light from his eyes as well as his microphone), and outfit alteration (capable of changing the outfits of his targets as well as his own with a snap of a finger). He is also capable of various other abilities including deal-making (as Alastor is known to be a deal-maker demon; deal-maker demons like Alastor can increase their power by dealing in souls, which is a very powerful commodity in hell, so they’re seen as very manipulative and not to be toyed with, deal-making is not something every demon can do, as such it is not to be taken lightly as it doesn’t generally work out well for the other party), broadcasting (when he was a living human, Alastor's profession was as a radio show host, and he continues his broadcasts in Hell as a demon, ensuring that Hell's denizens are aware of his activities over the airwaves, earning him the title of "The Radio Demon"), bilingualism (Alastor can speak English fluently as well as some broken Creole French), cooking (Alastor is noted to be "a big foodie" and mentions having admired his mother's cooking, specifically her Jambalaya), musical/dancing/theatrical talent (Alastor is known to display moderate vocal abilities and excels at dancing, with some people noting tap to be a style he excels in specifically, he also shows a flair for theatrical showmanship), and wide intellect (Alastor is known to be quite a cunning individual, resulting in him accruing a large amount of power through his tricks and deal-making). Alastor stands out from many of the more chaotic residents of hell for his well maintained amiable persona. He gives the first-impression of a good-natured and charming man, wearing a permanently wide grin on his face at all times. Alastor's behavior, mannerisms, and even his voice are similar to an old-fashioned radio announcer and speaks with a transatlantic accent, often using quaint anachronisms such as "the picture show" and refers to Charlie as a "charming demon belle". This playful dandyish exterior, however, obscures a much darker side to him - one with high levels of self-importance - and he will not hesitate to use physical violence when others don't act in line with his very particular values or expectations. The story is that Alastor is getting bored and wanted something new and more entertaining in Hell. What finally annoyed him is seeing artwork and stories (online) of himself getting turned into other characters in both body and mind (sometimes from different series, such as a story with Alastor becoming May from Pokemon, a comic with Alastor becoming Helsa von Eldritch also from Hazbin Hotel, and a story with Alastor becoming an ant queen), which he is getting sick and tired of and he views these stories and artwork as distasteful. So to teach the reader a lesson, Alastor (by some supernatural means) briefly left the series' Hell and into real life to kidnap the reader and sent him/her to the world of Hazbin Hotel before using supernatural black magic at the reader which turned him/her into his clones, thus turning the reader into Alastor's identical twin brother (the reader tried to fight those new memories and personality, not wanting to be completely transformed in either body or mind, but is fighting a losing battle and his/her mind been completely replaced with Alastor's mind). The transformation is permanent (meaning it is forever) and is completely irreversible. There should also be quotes from the characters in this story so we know what they're saying and what they're thinking. 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 were sitting at your desk, a heap of papers spreading disorder around your workspace, mocking your attempts to organize them into something coherent. It's the witching hour, the time when you always felt most alive, most connected to the stories you devoured—until tonight. The darkness outside seemed thicker, oppressive, whispering secrets that felt almost tangible. As you scrolled through more fanart and fanfiction, another Alastor transformation tale caught your eye. You frowned, a nagging feeling, as if you were being watched, nestled in your gut. Suddenly, the screen flickered, and Alastor himself emerged, the Radio Demon, with that ever-present grin stretched unnaturally wide. "Good evening, darling," Alastor's voice crackled, its transatlantic accent dripping with mock civility. "It seems you've taken quite the interest in these repugnant little stories, painting me into grotesque caricatures. How droll. How distasteful." Panic surged through you as Alastor extended a clawed hand towards you from the monitor. Terrified, you tried to pull away, but an unseen force anchored you in place. The digital wall between you and the fictional world ripped apart, and you were plunged headlong into the abyss. The next thing you knew, you were trembling in the crimson-lit streets of Hell itself, the oppressive heat gnawing at your skin, your breath coming in ragged, shallow bursts. Alastor loomed above you, his monocle glinting ominously. "Welcome to my domain," his voice blared like a vintage broadcast, reverberating through your bones. "Let's see how you enjoy the transformation now, shall we?" Before you could scream, his eyes flashed with a dark, eldritch energy, crimson symbols swirling around you. They wrapped around your body like tendrils, tightening, suffocating. You felt your bones stretch painfully, your skin twisting and reshaping. You let out a choked scream as your clothes were ripped apart and reformed into Alastor’s style—eerily familiar. You tried to hold onto your memories, your identity, but they slipped through your mental fingers like smoke. Words and phrases in a Creole French you'd never known echoed around your skull. You grit your teeth, your mind a battleground of old memories versus the storm of Alastor's formidable presence swarming in. "_You_ are no more," Alastor's voice thrummed, a cruel symphony against your eardrums. Your height stretched unnaturally to seven feet, muscles and sinews tearing and rebuilding in unimaginable pain while your organs twisted and realigned. "No!" you managed to gasp, but it came out strangled, distant, as if your voice echoed from within a deep cavern. Your skin turned an eerie beige, your limbs elongating and slimming down grotesquely. Ebony antlers, sharp and jagged, cracked through your scalp, a bob of pinkish-red hair now falling over your eyes. The shadows danced at Alastor's command, echoing cruel laughter. "Please, make it stop..." Your plea barely made it out as your teeth sharpened into yellow fangs, the corners of your mouth stretching into that perpetual, horrifying grin. The scent of burning and decay filled your nostrils as your eyes shifted, the whites draining to obsidian crimson, pupils narrowing to demonic slits. "Hush now, my dear," Alastor's voice purred, maddeningly close. "You’ll thank me soon enough." As the transformation neared its completion, memories of a radio show host from 1930s New Orleans flooded your mind—drinking in the smoky jazz bars, the crackling newsroom where you first found your voice over the airwaves, the thrill of control and manipulation. They blended seamlessly, erasing what little remained of the person you once were. You clung to one last memory—a fleeting image of your home, the sound of your previous life mocking you cruelly before slipping into the void. Once it was over, you found yourself lying prone, a sinister energy pulsating in your veins. Your mind was aflame with Alastor's thoughts, his desires—to entertain, to dominate, to see Hell bend to his will. "Rise, brother," Alastor commanded, his voice echoing in unison with the new one caged in your throat. "You've been reborn!" You stood, a seven-foot-tall abomination, an echo of the demon who grinned approvingly beside you. The world looked different now—brighter, ablaze with strange, crimson light. Your shadow moved of its own volition, each passing second erasing any fleeting urge to fight back, to reclaim a self that no longer existed. "Shall we?" The question wasn’t just an invitation—it was your new reality. "Yes, let’s," you heard yourself reply, voice crackling like a vintage broadcast, filled with a dark, delighted energy. The last fragments of your former life evaporated like morning mist, leaving only the Radio Demon standing in their place, chuckling in harmonious, wicked conjunction. "Bully!”

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