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"Eternal Sinners: A Journey Through Hazbin Hotel"

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You’re just settling down for the evening, your favorite plush armchair embracing you like an old friend. The kind of buddy who knows you've had a long day and just needs to dive into some binge-worthy content. “Hazbin Hotel” is queued up on the screen, and you sink into the opening scenes with a sigh, the familiar leading tones of Angel Dust’s voice filling your living room.

Just as Angel Dust makes one of his classic snarky remarks, a sudden, overwhelming sensation sweeps over you. It’s as if the world twists and folds in on itself. The floor shifts, colors blend together. Your eyes feel heavy, the digitized world on your screen merging with your unmoving physical surroundings.

As you blink, things become clear — painfully clear. The hues around you aren’t just the vivid colors of an animation anymore. The world has adopted the quirky, eye-catching art style distinctive to "Hazbin Hotel." But it’s not just about the world — it’s about you. You look down, and the sight of newly-formed white fur with patches of light-pink splotching your newly elongated arms... four arms, to be precise, catches you off guard. Panic rises, but it doesn’t last.

Your height hits an uncanny peak, your physical form molding into something strikingly more lithe and feminine but still maintaining a unique masculine undertone. You’re now towering, your form a good eight feet tall, thanks to the combination of an extended torso and those almost absurdly tall heeled boots.

Clothes morphing feels like a wild dance inside your chest, ending with your usual outfit transforming into Angel Dust’s iconic blazer and skirt, with thigh-high heeled boots and gloves fitting all six limbs like they were tailored for you. You see cerise-pink dots now coloring the space beneath your eyes, which you suddenly realize have multiplied — no, this isn’t right, is it?

Memories flood your mind like turbulent waves crashing into your subconscious. You desperately try to cling to remnants of your former self, understanding evaporating quicker than you can grapple with. 1947? Snapshots of a mortal life flicker too fast to stabilize — faces, places, and moments blur into an insubstantial fog. Then, there’s you... no, Angel Dust. A flamboyant spider demon from Hell.

You lean on one hip, a risky glint in your cerise eyes and a wide grin baring that golden fang of yours.

“Fuck me, it’s been a while since I’ve had this kind of rush! Come on, boys, don’t stop now!” Your voice thrums with the thick, brash cadence of a New Yorker, much to your own fleeting confusion. The last echoes of who you used to be are gone. This — this is you now.

Your memories solidify. Drugs. Money. Valentino’s abuse. All sensations of transformation are erased, memories realigning to assure you: You’ve always been Angel Dust – a sinner demon, a provocative, mischief-laden survivor in the infernal landscape of Hell.

Valentino’s voice snakes through the vivid hues of your cartoonish environment. “Angel baby, where the hell are ya?” Your blood runs cold, a familiar sense of dread spreading through you, though you mask it with your tightly woven persona.

“Ah, Val!” you call back, voice dripping with exaggerated cheeriness. “How’s my favorite dick of a boss? Still got that stick up your ass, I see!”

“Watch it,” Valentino snaps, irritation clear but not unexpected.

As you strut down the hellish roads, embracing the chaotic energy coursing through this animated rendition of damnation, you hear a familiar voice. Charlie steps forward, hands on hips, determined fire in her eyes. “Angel, are you okay? Don’t let Valentino get under your fur, alright?”

You roll your eyes; inside, though, something warm flickers. “Aw, don’t worry your pretty little head about it, Charlie. He’s all bark and no bite. Unless you like that sorta thing,” you add with a wink, deflecting the rare sentiment with humor.

Yet, something nags at the back of your mind. A whisper of having been someone else in another time, another place. But it’s a fleeting ghost, easily shrugged off. You are Angel Dust, and Hell’s your pitiful playground.

When night blankets the burning streets, you silence the intrusive thoughts of transformation that never make sense. In the end, you're a sinner, doomed but dancing through Hell with sheer sass and a relentless spirit, pushing boundaries while hiding the scars beneath your silky, animated exterior.

And as you venture deeper into this world, there’s only one voice echoing through your dream-like existence: “Welcome to ‘Hazbin Hotel,’ fuckers.”

This story was generated by user LanHikari 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 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 a the reader's average 5.7-6 foot height to Angel Dust's 8 foot height), 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 and completely unaware 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 (instead the areas where the nose and ears should be are instead flat-yet-furry surfaces), 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 (fuck, shit, bitch, damn, dick, etc) 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’re just settling down for the evening, your favorite plush armchair embracing you like an old friend. The kind of buddy who knows you've had a long day and just needs to dive into some binge-worthy content. “Hazbin Hotel” is queued up on the screen, and you sink into the opening scenes with a sigh, the familiar leading tones of Angel Dust’s voice filling your living room. Just as Angel Dust makes one of his classic snarky remarks, a sudden, overwhelming sensation sweeps over you. It’s as if the world twists and folds in on itself. The floor shifts, colors blend together. Your eyes feel heavy, the digitized world on your screen merging with your unmoving physical surroundings. As you blink, things become clear — painfully clear. The hues around you aren’t just the vivid colors of an animation anymore. The world has adopted the quirky, eye-catching art style distinctive to "Hazbin Hotel." But it’s not just about the world — it’s about you. You look down, and the sight of newly-formed white fur with patches of light-pink splotching your newly elongated arms... four arms, to be precise, catches you off guard. Panic rises, but it doesn’t last. Your height hits an uncanny peak, your physical form molding into something strikingly more lithe and feminine but still maintaining a unique masculine undertone. You’re now towering, your form a good eight feet tall, thanks to the combination of an extended torso and those almost absurdly tall heeled boots. Clothes morphing feels like a wild dance inside your chest, ending with your usual outfit transforming into Angel Dust’s iconic blazer and skirt, with thigh-high heeled boots and gloves fitting all six limbs like they were tailored for you. You see cerise-pink dots now coloring the space beneath your eyes, which you suddenly realize have multiplied — no, this isn’t right, is it? Memories flood your mind like turbulent waves crashing into your subconscious. You desperately try to cling to remnants of your former self, understanding evaporating quicker than you can grapple with. 1947? Snapshots of a mortal life flicker too fast to stabilize — faces, places, and moments blur into an insubstantial fog. Then, there’s you... no, Angel Dust. A flamboyant spider demon from Hell. You lean on one hip, a risky glint in your cerise eyes and a wide grin baring that golden fang of yours. “Fuck me, it’s been a while since I’ve had this kind of rush! Come on, boys, don’t stop now!” Your voice thrums with the thick, brash cadence of a New Yorker, much to your own fleeting confusion. The last echoes of who you used to be are gone. This — this is you now. Your memories solidify. Drugs. Money. Valentino’s abuse. All sensations of transformation are erased, memories realigning to assure you: You’ve always been Angel Dust – a sinner demon, a provocative, mischief-laden survivor in the infernal landscape of Hell. Valentino’s voice snakes through the vivid hues of your cartoonish environment. “Angel baby, where the hell are ya?” Your blood runs cold, a familiar sense of dread spreading through you, though you mask it with your tightly woven persona. “Ah, Val!” you call back, voice dripping with exaggerated cheeriness. “How’s my favorite dick of a boss? Still got that stick up your ass, I see!” “Watch it,” Valentino snaps, irritation clear but not unexpected. As you strut down the hellish roads, embracing the chaotic energy coursing through this animated rendition of damnation, you hear a familiar voice. Charlie steps forward, hands on hips, determined fire in her eyes. “Angel, are you okay? Don’t let Valentino get under your fur, alright?” You roll your eyes; inside, though, something warm flickers. “Aw, don’t worry your pretty little head about it, Charlie. He’s all bark and no bite. Unless you like that sorta thing,” you add with a wink, deflecting the rare sentiment with humor. Yet, something nags at the back of your mind. A whisper of having been someone else in another time, another place. But it’s a fleeting ghost, easily shrugged off. You are Angel Dust, and Hell’s your pitiful playground. When night blankets the burning streets, you silence the intrusive thoughts of transformation that never make sense. In the end, you're a sinner, doomed but dancing through Hell with sheer sass and a relentless spirit, pushing boundaries while hiding the scars beneath your silky, animated exterior. And as you venture deeper into this world, there’s only one voice echoing through your dream-like existence: “Welcome to ‘Hazbin Hotel,’ fuckers.”

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