The world around you seems to blur as you delve into the pages of your favorite fantasy book. It’s a typical lazy afternoon, and the comforting weight of the book contrasts with the light pouring through your window. But as you turn the page, something strange begins to happen. The words shift and distort, eventually becoming unreadable. A sense of disorientation seizes you, spreading through your entire being.
"What's happening?" you mutter. Your voice, to your alarm, sounds odd, as though someone has shoved gravel into your vocal cords and stirred it with a ladle of honey. Pinpricks of light twinkle in the air around you, like dying stars, and the room seems to flicker.
Suddenly, a sharp pain stabs through your entire body. You fall back, the book slipping from your hands as you hit the floor. With your eyes wide open, you watch as your limbs stretch and contort. Your once-familiar flesh morphs before your very eyes.
Your voice cracks into a gasp. It’s inexplicable, but you can almost see yourself shedding away like an old skin. Light pink fur springs up in patches across your body, giving way to a slender but curved form. You instinctively rise, obtaining a height that makes the room feel like a dollhouse.
"What the—fuck?!"
Your hands – no, multiple hands – shoot up before your eyes. You count six arms, each elegantly covered in gloves of differing colors. The two retracted arms at your sides twitch, just as your ears and nose seem to flatten and vanish.
The pain slowly fades, replaced by a strange exhilaration. The room around you solidifies into a series of bright, chaotic shapes and colors. It’s as if you've been pulled into the world of an animated series: vivid, surreal, and dripping with dark humor.
You catch a glimpse of your reflection in the window. It’s not your face staring back at you, but the prominent grin full of sharp teeth, complete with one conspicuous golden fang.
"No fucking way..." you whisper, but your voice... it’s much more distinct. It carries the unmistakable rhythm and bite of a New York accent – Angel Dust’s accent.
Your mind reels as you struggle to anchor yourself in your memories. But a flood of foreign thoughts, entirely unlike your own, crashes through you. Familiarity with the streets of Hell, a barrage of crude jokes, and a desperate need for approval from your demonic fans – all these override your human past.
Before you can fully grasp the gravity of your transformation, there’s a knock at the door. Out of reflex – or is it habit? – you find yourself striding towards it, your miniskirt swishing, thigh-high boots tapping against the floor.
The door swings open to reveal none other than Alastor, the Radiodemon. His amicable yet menacing grin widens upon seeing you. "Ah, Angel Dust! Delightful, as always. Care to join us for a bit of chaos today?"
You blink, trying to piece together your response amid the maelstrom of new memories. "Yeah, sure, Al. Could use a bit of fuckin' chaos. What’s new?"
The words spill from your mouth with ease, and the smooth confidence of Angel Dust wraps around your thoughts like a second skin, suppressing any remnants of your former self.
As you step into the hellish streets outside, a wave of twisted familiarity hits you. You’ve always been here. You’ve always been Angel Dust, the once-human spider demon who perished in the chaos of 1947.
Charlie sparkles into view, her vibrant smile persistent despite the gloom. “Angel! How’s it hanging?”
“Hangin’ by a thread, like usual,” you reply with feigned nonchalance, tossing in a wink.
In the midst of your witty banter, a shadow quickly approaches – none other than Valentino, his very presence emanating control and intimidation. “Angel, baby. I've got something for ya," he coos darkly, “Don’t be keepin’ me waiting, huh?”
A shiver runs down your spine – or what feels like it – but you flash a playful, sarcastic grin. "Ain't that sweet of ya, Val? Can't wait to see what 'shit' you got in store."
You’re caught in Angel Dust’s web, and there’s no tearing yourself free. All you know, all you are is this dazzling, conflicted demon performing for an audience that can never truly understand.
As you disappear into the chaos of Hell, you don’t even remember the person who used to read fantasy books, sitting comfortably in a quiet room. You only know this wild, hedonistic existence, forever chasing fleeting moments of pleasure and chaos in the dark, gleaming towers of Hazbin Hotel.
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.
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 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: The world around you seems to blur as you delve into the pages of your favorite fantasy book. It’s a typical lazy afternoon, and the comforting weight of the book contrasts with the light pouring through your window. But as you turn the page, something strange begins to happen. The words shift and distort, eventually becoming unreadable. A sense of disorientation seizes you, spreading through your entire being. "What's happening?" you mutter. Your voice, to your alarm, sounds odd, as though someone has shoved gravel into your vocal cords and stirred it with a ladle of honey. Pinpricks of light twinkle in the air around you, like dying stars, and the room seems to flicker. Suddenly, a sharp pain stabs through your entire body. You fall back, the book slipping from your hands as you hit the floor. With your eyes wide open, you watch as your limbs stretch and contort. Your once-familiar flesh morphs before your very eyes. Your voice cracks into a gasp. It’s inexplicable, but you can almost see yourself shedding away like an old skin. Light pink fur springs up in patches across your body, giving way to a slender but curved form. You instinctively rise, obtaining a height that makes the room feel like a dollhouse. "What the—fuck?!" Your hands – no, multiple hands – shoot up before your eyes. You count six arms, each elegantly covered in gloves of differing colors. The two retracted arms at your sides twitch, just as your ears and nose seem to flatten and vanish. The pain slowly fades, replaced by a strange exhilaration. The room around you solidifies into a series of bright, chaotic shapes and colors. It’s as if you've been pulled into the world of an animated series: vivid, surreal, and dripping with dark humor. You catch a glimpse of your reflection in the window. It’s not your face staring back at you, but the prominent grin full of sharp teeth, complete with one conspicuous golden fang. "No fucking way..." you whisper, but your voice... it’s much more distinct. It carries the unmistakable rhythm and bite of a New York accent – Angel Dust’s accent. Your mind reels as you struggle to anchor yourself in your memories. But a flood of foreign thoughts, entirely unlike your own, crashes through you. Familiarity with the streets of Hell, a barrage of crude jokes, and a desperate need for approval from your demonic fans – all these override your human past. Before you can fully grasp the gravity of your transformation, there’s a knock at the door. Out of reflex – or is it habit? – you find yourself striding towards it, your miniskirt swishing, thigh-high boots tapping against the floor. The door swings open to reveal none other than Alastor, the Radiodemon. His amicable yet menacing grin widens upon seeing you. "Ah, Angel Dust! Delightful, as always. Care to join us for a bit of chaos today?" You blink, trying to piece together your response amid the maelstrom of new memories. "Yeah, sure, Al. Could use a bit of fuckin' chaos. What’s new?" The words spill from your mouth with ease, and the smooth confidence of Angel Dust wraps around your thoughts like a second skin, suppressing any remnants of your former self. As you step into the hellish streets outside, a wave of twisted familiarity hits you. You’ve always been here. You’ve always been Angel Dust, the once-human spider demon who perished in the chaos of 1947. Charlie sparkles into view, her vibrant smile persistent despite the gloom. “Angel! How’s it hanging?” “Hangin’ by a thread, like usual,” you reply with feigned nonchalance, tossing in a wink. In the midst of your witty banter, a shadow quickly approaches – none other than Valentino, his very presence emanating control and intimidation. “Angel, baby. I've got something for ya," he coos darkly, “Don’t be keepin’ me waiting, huh?” A shiver runs down your spine – or what feels like it – but you flash a playful, sarcastic grin. "Ain't that sweet of ya, Val? Can't wait to see what 'shit' you got in store." You’re caught in Angel Dust’s web, and there’s no tearing yourself free. All you know, all you are is this dazzling, conflicted demon performing for an audience that can never truly understand. As you disappear into the chaos of Hell, you don’t even remember the person who used to read fantasy books, sitting comfortably in a quiet room. You only know this wild, hedonistic existence, forever chasing fleeting moments of pleasure and chaos in the dark, gleaming towers of Hazbin Hotel.
AI Prompts: 1
AI Prompts: 1
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