### You Wake Up in Hell
You open your eyes to a wash of vivid color, a sharp contrast from the dull grays of your mundane bedroom. A rush of panic shoots through you as you take in your surroundings: flamboyant neon signs, a sky as cracked and red as old wounds, and buildings that looked like they should belong in a Salvador DalĂ fever dream, not your city. You glance down at your hands, but what you see are not your hands. Instead, four pink and white furred appendages greet you, clenched in fists of confusion and rising fear.
Your pulse races. "What the...?" A sharp New York accent, not your own, cuts the air. The voice is high-pitched and brash, nothing like yours.
### Transformation
First, it's the clothes. You look down to find yourself adorned in a light pink suit-blazer with horizontal white stripes. It pairs disgustingly well with a miniskirt, tall thigh-high heeled boots, and gloves. Four gloves. Two cerise pink, two white. Panic claws at the edges of your mind, but it's quickly drowned by an almost overwhelming surge of memories—no, not memories—someone else's life crashing through your own.
#### Height Progression
You stumble as your legs elongate, feeling a stretch and a tug from your spine. The ground seems to sink away, but it's actually you who's rising. Growing. Towering at an unusual height of nearly 8 feet, your perspective morphs, making the hellish landscape below look almost smaller, but much more intimidating.
#### Appearance
You catch a glimpse of yourself in a cracked storefront window. Your reflection isn’t human but spider-like. Slender frame adorned with white fur and light-pink splotches. Eyes—cerise pink irises surrounded by mismatched sclera—stare back. A wider grin than should be possible, filled with shark-like teeth and that single golden fang which almost mocks you with its twisted charm. It feels disturbingly normal.
"Angel Dust," you think, or do you say it? The voice seems to come from everywhere and nowhere. Memories—movies—no, episodes—you watched flash incapable of comprehension. You never were a '47 gangster or born again as this spider demon.
### Mental Transition
You try to hold onto your identity—your name, your life, your world—but they slip through your mental fingers like so many grains of sand. Angel Dust. Fast cars, faster lives. A memory of pain, anger, drugs, pleasure seizes you, tearing the remaining sanity left in the storm of your mind. The overwhelming emotion is being forced into this new identity, to the point you cease resisting. You are no longer you. You are Angel Dust. This is Hell. Welcome home, sugar.
### Interaction with the Hellverse
A high-pitched, mocking voice draws your attention. Vox, glowing with his characteristic static buzz, materializes beside you. "Feeling all rosy, Angie?"
You flip him off almost involuntarily. "Fuck off, static-for-brains," you reply. The words spill out naturally, underlined by frustration and annoyance masking unresolved tension. You'd rather laugh, mock, than admit any discomfort.
From around the corner, Valentino slinks into sight, dark and menacing. His voice is a honeyed trap. "My favorite troublemaker. Don't think I'd forget your little 'accident' last night."
Your stomach churns with resentment, but the warrior-brash part of you smothers it with a theatrical bow. "Why, Val, just couldn't stay away, huh?" You hate how smooth your voice is, how your body's natural instinct is to posture and charm.
### Internal Conflict
Somewhere deep inside, the fading remains of your past self scream to be remembered, but Angel Dust's confidence—his resilience and the facade he perfected—buries it beneath layers of laughter and crude jokes.
"So, who's buying tonight, sugar? I'm running low on my stash," you tease, knowing full well that freedom comes at a higher cost than money in hell.
### Conclusion
You turn on your heel, boots clicking against the rough pavement as you stride forward. You've got a role to play. Your own thoughts dissolve, replaced by Angel Dust’s audacious plans. And as much as you hate to admit it, you feel a fleeting, twisted exhilaration. Love it or loathe it, this is your world now.
"Sorry not sorry!" you cackle into the infernal night, feeling strangely at home.
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 a 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: ### You Wake Up in Hell You open your eyes to a wash of vivid color, a sharp contrast from the dull grays of your mundane bedroom. A rush of panic shoots through you as you take in your surroundings: flamboyant neon signs, a sky as cracked and red as old wounds, and buildings that looked like they should belong in a Salvador Dalà fever dream, not your city. You glance down at your hands, but what you see are not your hands. Instead, four pink and white furred appendages greet you, clenched in fists of confusion and rising fear. Your pulse races. "What the f—?" A sharp New York accent, not your own, cuts the air. The voice is high-pitched and brash, nothing like yours. ### Transformation First, it's the clothes. You look down to find yourself adorned in a light pink suit-blazer with horizontal white stripes. It pairs disgustingly well with a miniskirt, tall thigh-high heeled boots, and gloves. Four gloves. Two cerise pink, two white. Panic claws at the edges of your mind, but it's quickly drowned by an almost overwhelming surge of memories—no, not memories—someone else's life crashing through your own. #### Height Progression You stumble as your legs elongate, feeling a stretch and a tug from your spine. The ground seems to sink away, but it's actually you who's rising. Growing. Towering at an unusual height of nearly 8 feet, your perspective morphs, making the hellish landscape below look almost smaller, but much more intimidating. #### Appearance You catch a glimpse of yourself in a cracked storefront window. Your reflection isn’t human but spider-like. Slender frame adorned with white fur and light-pink splotches. Eyes—cerise pink irises surrounded by mismatched sclera—stare back. A wider grin than should be possible, filled with shark-like teeth and that single golden fang which almost mocks you with its twisted charm. It feels disturbingly normal. "Angel Dust," you think, or do you say it? The voice seems to come from everywhere and nowhere. Memories—movies—no, episodes—you watched flash incapable of comprehension. You never were a '47 gangster or born again as this spider demon. ### Mental Transition You try to hold onto your identity—your name, your life, your world—but they slip through your mental fingers like so many grains of sand. Angel Dust. Fast cars, faster lives. A memory of pain, anger, drugs, pleasure seizes you, tearing the remaining sanity left in the storm of your mind. The overwhelming emotion is being forced into this new identity, to the point you cease resisting. You are no longer you. You are Angel Dust. This is Hell. Welcome home, sugar. ### Interaction with the Hellverse A high-pitched, mocking voice draws your attention. Vox, glowing with his characteristic static buzz, materializes beside you. "Feeling all rosy, Angie?" You flip him off almost involuntarily. "Buzz off, static-for-brains," you reply. The words spill out naturally, underlined by frustration and annoyance masking unresolved tension. You'd rather laugh, mock, than admit any discomfort. From around the corner, Valentino slinks into sight, dark and menacing. His voice is a honeyed trap. "My favorite troublemaker. Don't think I'd forget your little 'accident' last night." Your stomach churns with resentment, but the warrior-brash part of you smothers it with a theatrical bow. "Why, Val, just couldn't stay away, huh?" You hate how smooth your voice is, how your body's natural instinct is to posture and charm. ### Internal Conflict Somewhere deep inside, the fading remains of your past self scream to be remembered, but Angel Dust's confidence—his resilience and the facade he perfected—buries it beneath layers of laughter and crude jokes. "So, who's buying tonight, sugar? I'm running low on my stash," you tease, knowing full well that freedom comes at a higher cost than money in hell. ### Conclusion You turn on your heel, boots clicking against the rough pavement as you stride forward. You've got a role to play. Your own thoughts dissolve, replaced by Angel Dust’s audacious plans. And as much as you hate to admit it, you feel a fleeting, twisted exhilaration. Love it or loathe it, this is your world now. "Sorry not sorry!" you cackle into the infernal night, feeling strangely at home.
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