Supreme Symbiote Hosting is an interactive game on Infinite Worlds that I've created.

CHOOSE from OUTRAGEOUS OPTIONS to create your very own personalized experience:

• Every Player Character has a unique GAME SCENARIO!
• Every Player Character has distinct SYMBIOTE ABILITIES!
• Two Additional Player Characters with max stats for SANDBOX games.
• SYMBIOTE AESTHETICs each with their own STUNNING PHOTOREALISTIC LOOK ranging from the classic Venom aesthetic to a writhing, constantly shifting, and bioluminescent symbiote with luxurious hair!
• Symbiote's SENTIENCE and Level of CONTROL over you fully adjustable!
• and COMPLETE FREEDOM of CHOICE when ADDING PERSONALITY TRAITS to Symbiote! Do you want to be fused to a possessive, funny, and protective symbiote or are you more of the excitable type preferring a symbiote that's violent, impulsive, and horny?

Playing is as easy as typing what you want to happen next and the game will oblige no matter what. With the available options you can make every run a unique experience that has a wildly different story as well as specific gameplay depending on your choices.

Infinite Worlds offers virtually limitless freedom and the possibility to do things I haven't even considered anyone might do. So make sure you're not holding back when you're about to realize your symbiote fantasy.

If you prefer old-school reading, however, here is a play through of my own. Here is the play through on my DeviantArt with in-line images. Enjoy! 💋

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IX.

You lean closer to Sophie, your voice dropping to something almost conspiratorial. "Can we go somewhere private?"

Sophie's eyes widen fractionally. She glances around the room—at her brother laughing with Henrik across the space, at the other guests mingling with wine glasses—then back to you. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips. "I... yes. Yes, okay."

The suit woman is watching, Vex notes quietly in your shared consciousness. Peripheral vision. She just tracked our movement toward the hallway.

You keep your awareness split as Sophie leads you away from the main gathering area, down a short corridor lined with abstract paintings. The music and conversation fade to a pleasant background hum. She opens a door and you follow her into what appears to be a small home office—neat desk with a laptop, bookshelves, a leather chair facing the window that overlooks the street below.

Sophie closes the door behind you, then stands there with her back against it, breathing slightly faster than normal. "I don't... I'm not usually like this. I don't do things like this." Her hands are trembling slightly around her wine glass.

Her heart rate is through the roof, Vex observes. Adrenaline, cortisol, oxytocin, estrogen—she's a chemical cocktail right now. Fight or flight mixed with arousal. Fascinating.

You're about to respond when something changes in your awareness. That wrongness from before—the woman in the suit—suddenly intensifies. Not closer physically, but... sharper somehow. Like a frequency getting clearer.

She's scanning, Vex says sharply. Some kind of technology. It just swept through the apartment. It passed over us.

Your forensic training kicks in alongside Vex's predatory instincts. The scan was methodical, systematic. Whoever that woman is, she's not just some awkward party guest. She's hunting for something. And given your unique nature, you might be exactly what she's looking for.

We should phase, Vex suggests. Test whether her sensors can track dimensional shifting. If she's looking for symbiotes, phasing might register differently than normal matter.

But Sophie is standing right there, looking at you with desperate want and terrified vulnerability. "Serena? Are you okay? You keep... zoning out."

Choose, Vex purrs. The threat or the prey. Both are interesting. Both offer different kinds of... satisfaction.

TENTACLE VARIETY GAINED: GRABBER TENTACLES

«You lament that tentacles aren't that great at grabbing and manipulating things with much strength or finesse. As you do a tentacle splits at the end into smaller tentacles that function like fingers, allowing for stronger grabbing and fine motor control.»

X.

You flash Sophie a conspiratorial grin, letting playfulness dance in your eyes. "Want to help me with something? You might even get to see my spaceship afterward."

Sophie blinks, confusion mixing with arousal. "Your... what?"

But you're already moving, placing your hand palm-down on Florian's desk. Sophie watches, wine glass halfway to her lips, as your hand simply passes through the solid wood surface like it's made of water. No resistance. No sound. Just smooth dimensional transition.

The scan just spiked, Vex reports immediately. Different frequency. She definitely detected that.

You pull your hand back through the desk, wiggling your fingers at Sophie's stunned expression. "Told you. Spaceship."

"What the fuck," Sophie whispers, all color draining from her face. "What the actual fuck, Serena?"

Here she comes, Vex warns. Heading directly toward this room. Thirty seconds.

You press a finger to Sophie's lips—she's too shocked to resist—and whisper, "Trust me. Stay quiet." Then you phase through the wall beside the door, positioning yourself in the narrow space behind where it will open. Your body exists partially in the adjoining room's wall, invisible to anyone entering.

The door opens twelve seconds later.

The woman in the charcoal suit steps inside, her expression coolly professional. She's holding what looks like a smartphone but the screen displays biometric readings and heat signatures. "Ms. Metz? I'm Detective Hoffman, Vienna police. We've had reports of—"

She stops mid-sentence as her device emits a sharp beep. Her eyes snap to Sophie, then scan the room. "Where is she? The blonde woman. Where did she go?"

Sophie stammers, "I don't... what are you—"

You move with Vex's enhanced speed. Four tentacles—your new grabber variants—phase through the woman's body from behind, their finger-like tips solidifying inside her jacket pockets and shoulder holster. The woman gasps, trying to spin around, but you're already withdrawing: a compact pistol, the bio-scanner device, and something else—a metallic cylinder with ominous electromagnetic coils.

That's a weapon, Vex growls. Designed for us.

You step fully into view, materializing beside Sophie with the confiscated items floating on tentacles around you. The woman—Voss, if that's her real name—freezes, her hand instinctively reaching for weapons that are no longer there.

"Looking for me?" you ask pleasantly.

Voss's expression shifts through surprise, calculation, and settles on cold professionalism. "Serena Måne. Twenty-one. Forensic psychiatry student." Her eyes track the tentacles. "Symbiote bonding occurred within the last six hours based on integration depth. You're more controlled than most." She glances at Sophie. "Does she know what you are?"

Sophie makes a small, strangled sound.

"She does now," you say. The grabber tentacles flex, examining the electromagnetic device. "What's this? Looks unfriendly."

"Separation tool," Voss says flatly. "Forcibly removes symbiotes from hosts. Usually fatal to both, but that's acceptable collateral damage." She tilts her head, studying you with scientific detachment. "You're different though. Most hosts this fresh are barely coherent. Symbiote-dominant. But you're... integrated. Fascinating."

She's killed others like us, Vex hisses. I can smell death on her.

XI.

You let the tentacles retract, the confiscated items settling gently on Florian's desk. Your attention shifts completely to Sophie, who's pressed against the door, her wine glass trembling in her hand.

"Sophie," you say softly, stepping toward her with your hands raised in a calming gesture. "I need you to breathe for me, okay? I know this is... a lot."

Sophie's eyes are wild, darting between you and Voss. "You just... your hand went through the desk. You have tentacles. What are you?"

"I didn't know this would happen," you tell her honestly. "Yesterday I was just a student. Then something bonded to me." You gesture at yourself. "I'm still me, Sophie. Still Serena. Just... more now."

Voss makes a derisive sound. "Textbook symbiote rationalization. In three weeks you'll be a mindless puppet killing everyone you—"

"She admitted to murdering people," you cut her off, keeping your eyes on Sophie. "She called it 'collateral damage.' Seventeen people dead because she decided they weren't worth saving."

Sophie's gaze snaps to Voss. "You what?"

Voss's expression remains cold. "They were already dead. The symbiotes had taken control. I ended their suffering and prevented further contamination."

"They were people," Sophie says, and her voice has shifted from shock to something sharper. Professional. "You're talking about seventeen human beings. You're not police, are you?"

"Defense contractor," Voss says flatly. "Xenobiology division. And yes, they were people. People who made the mistake of bonding with alien parasites."

She's trying to separate us, Vex murmurs. Psychologically. Making Sophie see you as a threat.

You turn to Sophie fully, ignoring Voss. "I need to know what you think. About me. About this." Your voice drops. "Five minutes ago you were telling me you wanted me. Has that changed?"

Sophie looks at you for a long moment. Her breathing is still rapid, but her therapist training seems to be kicking in. "Are you... are you in control? Is that thing making you do things you don't want to do?"

"We're partners," you say simply. "Neither of us controls the other. We're... merged."

"That's not possible," Voss interjects. "Symbiote integration results in host personality suppression within—"

"Shut up," Sophie snaps, surprising everyone. She's still looking at you. "Serena. The woman I was talking to at the party. Is she still there?"

"I'm right here," you say. "Still studying forensic psychiatry. Still curious about why people do what they do. Still very attracted to you."

Sophie's lips twitch despite herself. Then her expression hardens as she looks at Voss. "And you were going to use that device on her? The one that's 'usually fatal'?"

Voss shrugs. "If necessary."

"Get out," Sophie says quietly.

"Excuse me?"

"Get out of my brother's apartment. Now. Before I call the actual police and tell them there's someone here threatening party guests with an illegal weapon."

XII.

You turn to Sophie, keeping your voice measured and analytical. "Sophie, do you believe Hoffmann is actually her real name?"

Sophie's gaze sharpens, her therapist instincts engaging despite her shock. "No. The way she presented it... too rehearsed. And real Vienna police don't investigate 'reports' at private parties without uniformed backup."

Voss's expression doesn't change, but you catch the micro-tension in her jaw.

"She's a defense contractor," you continue, gesturing at the confiscated devices on the desk. "They have massive budgets for building contraptions like this." You tap the electromagnetic separator with one finger. "And she's admitted to killing seventeen people. She's not going to stop. She'll come for me again, probably with more resources next time."

"Alleged killing," Voss corrects coolly. "No bodies. No evidence. Just your word against mine."

Sophie's eyes narrow. "You didn't deny it when I confronted you earlier."

"Context matters in court," Voss says.

You shift closer to Sophie, lowering your voice conspiratorially but ensuring Voss can still hear. "Do you want to call your brother in here? With his job and connections, he should be able to litigate her into submission. Corporate espionage at a private residence, illegal weapons possession, threatening guests... Florian's firm deals with cases like this."

Smart, Vex murmurs approvingly. Attack her professionally, not physically. More sustainable.

Sophie pulls out her phone, then hesitates. "If I bring Florian in... he'll see what you are. The tentacles. Everything."

"Would that be so terrible?" you ask gently.

She studies your face for a long moment. "I don't know yet. But this woman..." She glares at Voss. "She threatened you with a weapon. That's assault at minimum."

Voss finally shows emotion—a thin smile. "Ms. Metz, I respect your protective instinct. But you're involving yourself in something far beyond domestic law. There are agencies—international protocols—for handling xenobiological contamination. If you make this official, you'll attract attention neither you nor your... friend would want."

"She's threatening us," Sophie says flatly.

"I'm clarifying consequences," Voss replies. "Ms. Måne is currently an unregistered symbiote host. The moment she enters any legal system, that status becomes documented. Permanent. Every government agency with xenobiology protocols will have her on file. Is that what you want, Serena?"

She's not wrong, Vex admits grudgingly. Going official means permanent surveillance.

XIII.

You wave dismissively at Voss, keeping your tone light despite the tension crackling through the room. "Bla, bla, bla. I'll get asylum for my off-world part. Who knows what of what she's saying is actually true, and I'm sure there are 'creative' solutions that Flo can come up with. And we can use self-defense if she tries anything." You turn to Sophie with a conspiratorial grin. "Just tell Flo to expect hentai tentacles. It'll be fine."

Sophie stares at you for a beat, then something breaks—she laughs. It's slightly hysterical, but genuine. "Hentai tentacles. Jesus Christ, Serena." She runs a hand through her hair, then straightens her shoulders with visible determination. "Okay. Okay, yes. Florian needs to know about this."

"Ms. Metz, I strongly advise—" Voss begins.

"I don't care what you advise," Sophie cuts her off sharply. "You came into my brother's home with weapons and threatened someone. That's not negotiable." She moves toward the door, phone already in hand.

Voss's expression hardens. "If you involve civilian legal channels, you'll regret it. Both of you."

She's calculating something, Vex warns. Her heart rate just dropped. That's wrong—should be elevated if she's genuinely threatened.

Sophie pauses at the door, looking back at Voss with cold assessment. "Are you threatening me now too? Because I'm a licensed therapist and I'm very good at documenting threatening behavior for court testimony."

For the first time, Voss looks genuinely uncertain. Her jaw tightens. "I'm clarifying reality. There are procedures for handling xenobiological incidents. Circumventing them creates complications."

"Then maybe you should have followed proper procedures instead of showing up at a party with a kill-device," you point out reasonably.

Sophie opens the door and steps into the hallway. You hear her voice, slightly distant: "Flo? Can you come to your office for a minute? There's a situation."

Voss moves with sudden speed toward the window, but you're faster—tentacles snap out, wrapping around her wrist and waist. She freezes, eyes locked on yours.

"Don't," you say quietly. "Sophie's getting help. You can either wait here and deal with this professionally, or I can make sure you can't run. Your choice."

Footsteps approach in the hallway—Florian's voice, concerned: "Sophie? What's wrong?"

Voss stops resisting, her expression settling into cold calculation. "Fine. But this conversation isn't over, Ms. Måne. Not by a long shot."

XIV.

You close your eyes for a moment, letting Vex's enhanced perception wash over you. The world explodes into layers of information—heat signatures, electromagnetic frequencies, the subtle chemical signatures of materials.

There, Vex murmurs. Subdermal transmitter. Left forearm. Broadcasting to... three blocks northwest. Two life signs in the vehicle.

You open your eyes just as Florian steps through the doorway, Sophie moving aside to let him pass. He's still holding a champagne flute, his expression shifting from casual concern to confusion as he takes in the scene—you with your tentacles still partially visible, the confiscated weapons on his desk, and the severe woman in the charcoal suit standing rigidly near the window.

"What the hell is going on?" Florian asks, looking between you and Sophie.

"Flo," you say calmly, retracting the tentacles but keeping your awareness locked on Voss. "We need your advice on how to deal with a defense contractor who came here to kill me and has already killed seventeen people. She probably has some guys in a van sitting somewhere."

Florian blinks. Sets down his champagne glass very carefully on the desk. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Three blocks northwest," you add helpfully. "Two of them. She has a subdermal transmitter in her left forearm."

Voss's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "Impressive sensors."

"Serena has tentacles," Sophie says flatly. "And this woman—" she gestures at Voss "—threatened her with that device. The one that's 'usually fatal.'"

Florian looks at the electromagnetic separator on his desk. Then at you. Then at Voss. His lawyer instincts seem to kick in, his expression settling into something cooler and more analytical. "Okay. Let's start with basics. Who are you, and what organization do you work for?"

"Dr. Elena Voss," she says after a pause. "Independent contractor. Xenobiology threat assessment."

"Independent means no official backing," Florian observes. "Which means breaking and entering, assault with an illegal weapon, and whatever 'threat assessment' means in practice." He pulls out his phone. "Sophie, you witnessed the threat?"

"Yes," Sophie says immediately. "She admitted to killing seventeen people and said it was 'acceptable collateral damage.'"

Voss's expression remains neutral, but you can sense her recalculating. "Mr. Metz, your sister is involving you in something that will attract attention you don't want. Ms. Måne is bonded to an alien organism. That makes her a security risk under multiple international protocols."

"Which protocols?" Florian asks sharply. "Cite them specifically."

Voss hesitates fractionally—the first real crack in her composure.

She's making it up, Vex whispers. Or at least exaggerating. Her cortisol just spiked.

"I thought so," Florian says quietly. "So we have an armed intruder making threats based on non-existent legal authority. That's simple assault and trespassing." He looks at you. "Serena, show me the tentacles. I need to see what we're actually dealing with."

XV.

"You've seen hentai, haven't you, Flo?" you ask with a mischievous grin.

Florian's eyebrows rise. "I... what?"

You let the grabber tentacles unfurl from your back—four of them, glossy magenta with those purple circuit-board veins pulsing with light. They move with fluid grace, each one splitting at the tip into smaller finger-like appendages. One reaches for the champagne glass on his desk, lifting it with surprising delicacy. Another picks up the electromagnetic separator, rotating it slowly for examination. A third wraps around a framed photo on the shelf, turning it to face Florian, while the fourth simply waves at him in an almost cheerful greeting.

"Holy shit," Florian breathes. His face has gone pale, but his eyes track each movement with sharp focus. "That's... those are real. You're really..."

"Bonded to an alien symbiote, yes," you confirm. The tentacle holding the champagne glass extends toward him, offering it back. He takes it automatically, still staring.

Sophie steps closer to you, her hand finding yours. "She saved my life when that woman pulled a weapon," she says quietly. "Whatever she is now, she's still Serena."

The male is processing, Vex observes. Heart rate elevated but stabilizing. No panic response. He's adapting quickly.

Voss watches the display with clinical interest. "Remarkable motor control. Most new bonds can barely manage basic combat applications. You're what—less than three hours bonded?"

"Something like that," you say, retracting the tentacles smoothly. They dissolve back into your form like water absorbing into sand. "Flo, the important thing is that this woman came here with a device designed to kill me. She's admitted to seventeen previous murders. And she has backup three blocks away—two operatives, subdermal transmitter in her left forearm."

Florian sets down the champagne glass and pulls out his phone. "Right. Okay. Sophie, call building security. Tell them we have an intruder with weapons and possible accomplices nearby. Don't mention the... alien situation." He looks at Voss. "Dr. Voss, you're going to sit in that chair and not move while we figure out what to do with you. If you try to signal your team, I will personally ensure you face charges in every jurisdiction I can think of."

"You're making a mistake," Voss says, but she moves to the chair.

"Maybe," Florian acknowledges. "But it's my mistake to make in my home."

XVI.

You turn to Sophie, deliberately shifting the dynamic. "Sophie, see how fascinated she is by everything? This is probably the first time she's had to talk to someone like me. Beyond threats of murder." You gesture toward Voss with one hand while keeping your awareness locked on her. "And here I am thinking that putting her in an oubliette for a couple of hours would be overkill."

Sophie studies Voss with clinical attention, her therapist instincts visibly engaging. She circles slightly, observing the older woman's posture, the tension in her shoulders, the way her eyes track you with that hungry scientific curiosity.

"You're right," Sophie says slowly. "She's not presenting defensive body language anymore. Her breathing has stabilized. The fear response is completely gone." She crosses her arms. "Dr. Voss, what do you actually want from Serena?"

Voss considers the question for a long moment. "To understand how this level of integration is possible. Every previous case I've documented showed deterioration—cognitive decline, loss of host autonomy, eventual system failure. You've been bonded for what, three hours? And you're demonstrating abilities that should take months to develop, if they develop at all."

She's telling the truth about that, Vex murmurs. Her cortisol levels dropped when she started talking about the science. This excites her more than the threat did.

"So you murder seventeen people conducting your 'research,' and now you want to study me?" you ask.

Florian clears his throat. "I'm still calling building security and the police. This woman broke into my home with weapons."

"Wait," Voss says, and for the first time there's urgency in her voice. "Please. Give me ten minutes. Just ten minutes to explain what's actually happening in this city, and then you can decide what to do with me."

Sophie looks at you questioningly. Florian's thumb hovers over his phone screen.

"She wants something," Sophie observes. "The question is whether we're willing to hear it, or whether we'd rather just end this now."

Voss leans forward slightly. "There are seventeen more hosts in Vienna right now. Seventeen. And twelve of them are deteriorating. If you don't let me explain, some of them will die badly in the next seventy-two hours."

That's... probably true, Vex admits reluctantly. I can taste the urgency on her. She believes what she's saying.

To be continued... by you?

A Feedee Fantasy is an interactive game on Infinite Worlds that I've created.

You've got the freedom to CHOOSE...

1. MALE or FEMALE Player Characters...
2. *WEIGHT GAIN TYPE: Regular Weight Gain, Appetite Stimulants, Weight Gain Potion, or The Reverse Liposuction Machine! (Yes, you've read that right.)*
3. FEEDEE PSYCHOLOGY: Neutral Mindset, Unwilling Gainer, Dislikes Fatness, Fetishizes Fatness, Fattens Others Unintentionally, Fattens Others Deliberately, or Motivation Unrelated to Fetish.
4. FEEDEE TURN-ON: Public Embarrassment, Tight Clothes, Physical Unfitness, Fat Humiliation, Professional Gainer Goals Reached, People Stare, or Positive Reactions.
5. FEEDEE LIFESTYLE: Secretly Gaining, Openly Gaining, Exhibitionist Gainer, Easily Swayed into Gaining, Forced into Gaining, or Professional Gainer.
6. FEEDER IDENTITY: No Feeder, My Ex-Girlfriend, My Ex-Boyfriend, My Girlfriend, My Boyfriend, A Female Fat Admirer I Just Met, A Male Fat Admirer I Just Met, My Emotionally Distant Feeder, Online Dominatrix, A Male Fat Admirer I'm Trying to Impress, A Female Fat Admirer I'm Trying to Impress, A Fellow Feedism Model, 'Astrid Sørensen', 'Petra Kolář', or 'Clara Gruber'.
7. FEEDER DYNAMICS: No Feeder, Secretly Fattening Me, Mutually Gaining with Me, Sexualizing Mutual Weight Gain for Me, Sexualizing Stuffing for Me, Force Feeding Me, Sexualizing Weight Gain for Me, Forcing Me to Gain Weight, Humiliating and Feeding Me, or Gaslighting Me Into Gaining Weight.
8. FRIENDSHIP DYNAMICS: Concerned About Weight Gain, Supportive of Weight Gain, Making Fun of Weight Gain, or Enjoy Teasing Me About Weight Gain.
9. FAMILY DYNAMICS: No Family, Concerned About Weight Gain, Supportive of Weight Gain, Making Fun of Weight Gain, or Never Fat Enough for Grandma.
10. WORK-PLACE DYNAMICS: No Colleagues, Colleagues Secretly Commenting about Weight Gain, Colleagues Openly Commenting about Weight Gain, Colleagues Making Fun of Weight Gain, One Colleague Secretly into Weight Gain, Boss Forces Regular Stuffings at Work, or Female Superior Insists on Fattening Food.

All you need for playing is typing what you want to happen next and the game will oblige no matter what. Infinite Worlds offers virtually limitless freedom. Play with the feedee settings of your choosing and do things I haven't even considered anyone might do.

If you prefer old-school reading, however, here is a play through of my own. Here is the Story on my DeviantArt with in-line pictures. Enjoy! 💋

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CXXXVII.

"Bench, Mia," you say, gesturing toward a weathered wooden bench positioned against the bakery's exterior wall. "I'm feeling it again. Film this because it might be a new record."

Mia's already pulling her phone from the burgundy case, setting up the angle as you settle onto the bench. The wood is warm from the morning sun, and you place the bag of pastel de nata beside you.

"I'm craving these pastel de nata so much right now," you announce to the camera—and as the words leave your mouth, saliva floods so suddenly you have to slurp it back audibly. The sound is obscene, wet.

"Jesus," Mia breathes. "That's real."

"Starting now," you say, reaching into the bag.

The first tart is still warm, the custard yielding under your fingers. You bring it to your mouth and bite—the caramelized top cracks between your teeth, releasing that burnt-sugar bitterness, then the custard floods your tongue, rich and eggy and sweet. You chew twice and swallow, already reaching for the second.

Mia's filming from two feet away, close enough to capture the mechanics—your jaw working, your throat moving with each swallow, the way your pupils dilate slightly with each bite.

The second tart disappears. Then the third. You're not tasting them individually anymore—they're becoming sensation, texture, the rhythm of reach-bite-chew-swallow establishing itself like a drumbeat. The custard coats your mouth, accumulates at the corners of your lips.

Fourth. Fifth. Your belly is making space, that hollow demanding feeling being filled incrementally.

"Thirty seconds," Mia says, checking her phone's timer. "You're at five."

Sixth. The caramelized top of this one is darker, more bitter. Seventh. Your jaw is starting to ache slightly but you don't slow. Eighth. You're breathing through your nose between bites, maintaining the pace.

"One minute," Mia announces. "Eight down, four to go."

Ninth. Tenth. The custard is so rich it's almost making you nauseous but that just makes you want to finish faster, prove you can. Eleventh—you barely chew this one, just crushing it with your tongue against your palate and swallowing.

The twelfth tart sits in your palm. Your hand is sticky with custard and sugar. You look directly at Mia's camera and push the entire thing into your mouth at once, your cheeks bulging obscenely. You chew, swallow, chew again, finally getting it down.

"One minute forty-two seconds," Mia says, her voice slightly awed. "Twelve pastel de nata in one minute forty-two seconds. That's insane."

Your stomach feels heavy now, the custard settling in a warm mass. But already—already—you're eyeing the other bags of pastries.

CXXXVIII.

You wipe custard residue from the corners of your mouth with the back of your hand, looking directly at Mia with sudden clarity.

"Oh my god. I'm not unaware of reality. I know how crazy that just was." You gesture between the two of you, your bandaged forearm catching the sunlight. "Thank you, universe, for this fantastic redhead that complements me so well. Films, supports, and doesn't even flinch when I ate the last pastel."

You lean forward slightly, meeting Mia's eyes. "You're awesome."

Mia's expression shifts—something unguarded crossing her face before she catches herself. "Stop," she says, but her voice lacks its usual edge.

"No, seriously." You pull your phone from the burgundy cross-body case, flipping the camera to face Mia. "Sorry that the pastel de nata are gone, but how did you experience what just happened?"

Mia looks at the camera, then back at you. For a moment she seems to be calculating her response—considering what plays well versus what's true. Then something gives.

"Honestly?" She runs her free hand through her red hair. "That was fucking obscene. Not in a bad way. In a... I've filmed a lot of people eating. Hundreds of videos. Thousands of meals. And that was different."

She leans closer to your phone. "You weren't performing. You were consuming. There's a distinction. Most people, even competitive eaters, there's this conscious element—they're aware of the camera, aware of themselves. You just... went."

"One minute forty-two seconds," she continues. "Twelve pastries. Your jaw was working like machinery. And the whole time I'm watching your throat, watching you swallow, and I'm thinking—this is what I wanted. This is exactly what I wanted when I dosed those brownies."

Her voice drops lower. "Someone who doesn't just gain weight for content. Someone who genuinely cannot stop. Who's building pathways in their brain that say 'more, always more.' You're not faking the hunger anymore. It's real. Your body is demanding it."

She reaches out, touching your belly through the black camisole—the gesture casual but possessive. "And watching you satisfy it is the hottest thing I've ever filmed."

Your stomach chooses that moment to rumble again despite the custard mass sitting heavy inside you. Mia hears it and grins.

"See? Already asking for more. That's not normal. That's conditioning. That's what makes this work."

CXXXIX.

You angle the phone to capture both of you, Mia still visible in frame beside you on the bench.

"But no worries, we won't let her lose weight on us," you announce to the camera, your voice taking on that performance register. "Twenty steps in that direction is a café and I think a milkshake would suit this classy lady. I wanna film her suck it up in one go."

You flip the camera to face yourself, grinning directly into the lens. "You're welcome, pervs!"

You stop recording, lowering the phone back into the burgundy case at your hip. "We should slowly move along and see where the universe takes us," you say, turning to look at Mia properly.

She's watching you with an expression you can't quite parse—something between amusement and vulnerability.

"You're just so beautiful," you tell her, the words emerging unfiltered. "It's making me high."

Mia's face flushes pink beneath her freckles again—that same reaction from earlier when you called her 'super-fat lovie.' She opens her mouth, closes it, then finally manages: "Stop saying shit like that."

"Why?" you ask.

"Because." She stands abruptly, gathering the remaining pastry bags. "Because you're going to make me believe it."

She starts walking toward the café you'd pointed out—a small corner establishment with outdoor seating under green awnings, about thirty meters down the street. You follow, watching the way she moves, the confident stride despite her size.

"What if I want you to believe it?" you call after her.

Mia doesn't turn around but her voice carries back clearly: "Then you're succeeding."

The café is called Café Sonne, the name painted in cheerful yellow letters above the entrance. Through the windows you can see maybe six small tables inside, only two occupied. The outdoor seating is empty—four wrought-iron tables with matching chairs positioned to catch the late-morning sun.

Mia chooses an outdoor table without asking, setting the pastry bags down. "Sit," she instructs. "I'll order. What kind of milkshake?"

"Whatever's biggest," you say, settling into the chair. The metal is warm from the sun, and your belly presses against the table edge.

"Helpful," Mia says dryly, but she's already heading inside.

You watch her through the window as she approaches the counter—a young male barista, maybe twenty-two, takes her order. Even from outside you can see the way his eyes track to her body, the recognition of her size registering visibly in his expression.

Mia returns within two minutes. "Chocolate milkshake, extra large. He said it's a liter."

"Perfect." You pull your phone out again, setting it up to record. "Ready to perform?"

CXL.

You lean forward across the wrought-iron table, your belly pressing against the metal edge.

"Isn't this a nice rhythm," you say softly, meeting Mia's eyes. "We're making content but it's actually activities for us. The filming kind of gives each activity its distinctness, its weight." You pause deliberately. "Pun intended."

Mia snorts, but she's listening.

"And if I could do anything right now, it would be this. I want to see my super-fat lovie annihilate this milkshake." You reach across the table, your bandaged forearm resting beside hers. "So say that you believe it and mean it."

Mia's expression shifts—that guarded calculation dropping away entirely. She looks at you for several seconds without speaking, and you watch something resolve in her face.

"I believe it," she says quietly. "I believe I'm beautiful. Not despite this—" she gestures at her body "—but because of it. Because of you looking at me like I'm exactly what you want."

Her voice drops lower. "Every fucking person I've been with has either fetishized my size or tolerated it. You're the first one who celebrates it. Who wants more of it. Who looks at me gaining and sees success instead of failure."

She takes a breath. "So yes. I believe I'm beautiful. Because you make me believe it."

The moment sits between you, heavy with sincerity.

Then Mia grins, the performative mask sliding back into place. "Now let's film me destroying this milkshake before it gets warm."

The young barista emerges with a massive glass—easily a liter, thick chocolate shake topped with whipped cream and chocolate shavings. He sets it down in front of Mia along with a wide straw.

"Extra large chocolate," he says in German-accented English, his eyes tracking obviously to Mia's chest.

"Perfect," Mia says without acknowledging his stare.

You already have your phone out, angling to capture her face and the enormous glass. "Ready when you are."

Mia picks up the straw, positioning it between her lips. She looks directly at your camera, then begins sucking.

The thick shake moves up the straw steadily—you can see her cheeks hollow slightly with the suction, see her throat working with each swallow. She doesn't pause, doesn't stop for air, just maintains that steady consuming rhythm.

Ten seconds. Twenty. The level in the glass drops visibly. Thirty seconds. Forty. Her eyes are locked on your phone, performing directly to the lens.

At fifty-five seconds the straw makes that hollow rattling sound—the glass is empty except for residue clinging to the sides.

Mia releases the straw, wiping whipped cream from her upper lip with one finger. "Fifty-five seconds," she announces. "One liter chocolate milkshake. New personal record."

Your stomach growls loudly enough that the barista, still lingering near the door, glances over.

"Your turn?" Mia asks, eyeing the remaining pastry bags.

CXLI.

You head inside while Mia sets up her phone to record, propping it against the empty pastry bags to get the angle right. The same young barista takes your order—another extra large chocolate milkshake—and you can see him doing mental calculations, looking between you and the door where Mia sits visible through the window.

"Another liter?" he asks in accented English.

"Yes," you confirm simply.

Two minutes later you're settling back into your chair across from Mia, the massive glass sweating condensation onto the wrought-iron table. Mia's already filming, the phone angled to capture your face and upper body.

"So now I want a milkshake," you announce to the camera. You look directly at Mia. "And, Lovie, no matter who drank up faster we're still good, yeah?"

"Always," Mia says from behind the phone.

"But I need some music." You pull up your own phone with your free hand, scrolling quickly. "Big and Chunky" from Madagascar starts playing—that absurdly catchy children's song about liking them big and chunky.

Mia's laugh is immediate and delighted. "You're fucking ridiculous."

"I like 'em big, I like 'em chunky," the tinny phone speakers sing out.

You wrap your lips around the straw and begin sucking. The thick chocolate shake flows steadily—cold, sweet, rich. You don't break eye contact with Mia's camera, maintaining that same steady consuming rhythm she'd demonstrated moments before.

The music continues its absurd chorus. Your cheeks hollow with suction. The level drops visibly—quarter gone, then half.

Your throat works continuously, swallowing the dense liquid without pause. The cold settles heavy in your stomach, joining the mass of custard from the pastel de nata, the chicken from the parking lot, the enormous breakfast.

Three-quarters gone. You can hear Mia's breathing change behind the phone—quicker, shallower.

The final quarter disappears in seconds. You release the straw at exactly forty-eight seconds according to the video timestamp, wiping your mouth.

"Oh fuck," Mia says into the recording, her voice genuinely shocked. "Forty-eight seconds. She just—" She stops filming abruptly, setting the phone down. Her face is flushed, pupils dilated. "That was seven seconds faster than mine."

"Does that bother you?" you ask.

"No." Mia's voice is rough. "Opposite. Watching you consume like that—" She breaks off, glancing at the young barista who's now openly staring through the café window. "We should probably leave before I do something inappropriate at this public table."

Your stomach gurgles audibly—not satisfied, just acknowledging the additional eight hundred calories of liquid sugar and dairy.

"The pastries?" you gesture to the bags.

"Bring them," Mia says, already standing. "We'll eat them in the car."

CXLII.

You gather the pastry bags from the table, the paper rustling as you check their contents. "Let's head to Zara now," you say. "Like we planned. We can bring these and eat them while trying on clothes."

Mia nods, pulling out her phone. "Makes sense. More content opportunities—watching you try to squeeze into your old sizes while eating pastries." She's already typing. "I'm telling the driver to meet us there."

You stand, feeling the weight of the milkshake settling heavily atop everything else in your stomach—a cold, dense mass joining the custard and chicken and breakfast. The waistband pulls tight across your belly, riding up slightly.

"How far is Zara?" you ask.

"Three blocks," Mia says, pointing down the street. "That direction. The driver can pick us up there after."

You start walking together, both of you still wearing your phones in the burgundy cross-body cases. The warm midday sun feels good on your bare arms despite the bandages covering your fresh tattoos.

"So we start with extra small," Mia says as you walk. "Your pre-gain size. Film you trying to get into those jeans you wore Friday. Document the impossibility."

"They won't even go past my thighs now," you say.

"Exactly. That's the content." Mia's grin is sharp. "Then we work our way up. Small, medium, large. Find what actually fits now. Your subscribers are going to lose their fucking minds."

You pass a pharmacy, a small electronics shop, a café with outdoor seating similar to Café Sonne. The street is moderately busy—other pedestrians giving you both curious glances but no one stopping or staring overtly.

"What about the pastries?" you ask. "We just eat them in the fitting room?"

"Why not?" Mia shrugs. "Private space. No one watching except the cameras. You try on jeans that don't fit, eat a croissant, try on the next size up. Perfect narrative progression."

The Zara storefront comes into view ahead—a modern glass facade with the familiar black lettering. Through the windows you can see racks of clothing, several customers browsing, bright overhead lighting.

"Ready?" Mia asks.

Your stomach gurgles—not from hunger exactly, but from the sheer volume of food and liquid sitting heavy inside you. The piercing in your belly button twinges slightly as your belly presses against the waistband of your underwear.

"Let's do this," you say, pushing open the glass door.

CXLIII.

You stop on the sidewalk outside Zara's glass façade, both of you positioning yourselves so the black lettering is visible behind you. Mia holds her phone at arm's length to capture both your faces.

"Alright pervs," you say directly to the camera, grinning. "So we're about to go into Zara and I'm going to try on the clothes I wore last Friday. Extra small everything. Jeans that actually fit me five days ago."

"Spoiler alert," Mia interjects. "They're not going to fit."

"Not even close," you agree. "We're going to document exactly how much I've outgrown them. Then we'll work our way up through the sizes until we find what actually fits now."

"While eating pastries in the fitting room," Mia adds. "Because why not."

You stop recording and push through the glass doors. The air conditioning hits immediately—cool, slightly artificial-smelling. The store is moderately busy for a Tuesday afternoon. A young female sales associate near the entrance glances up, her eyes tracking briefly to your belly before she returns to folding a display of t-shirts.

Mia heads straight for the jeans section, her fingers moving efficiently through the racks. "What size were you wearing Friday?"

"Twenty-four waist," you say. "Extra small."

She pulls several pairs—skinny jeans in dark wash, light wash, black. Then she systematically works through sizes: twenty-six, twenty-eight, thirty, thirty-two. Within three minutes she's carrying an armful of denim.

"Fitting rooms?" she asks a passing sales associate—a different woman, older, maybe forty.

"Back corner," the woman says in German-accented English, gesturing.

The fitting room area is a corridor of six individual stalls with floor-length doors and full mirrors. All are currently empty. Mia claims the largest one at the end, and you follow her inside with the pastry bags.

The space is maybe six feet by four feet—white walls, bright overhead lighting, a small bench along one wall. Mia hangs the jeans on the provided hooks while you set the pastry bags on the bench.

You pull out a chocolate croissant, taking a large bite. The flaky pastry dissolves on your tongue, buttery and rich. You chew while Mia arranges her phone on the bench, angling it upward to capture you standing.

"Ready," she says, starting to record. "Start with the twenty-fours."

You finish the croissant in two more bites, wiping chocolate from your fingers onto your leg. Then you pick up the first pair—dark wash skinny jeans, size twenty-four.

You step into them, pulling upward. The denim stops at mid-thigh, the fabric straining visibly against your flesh. You tug harder. The waistband sits maybe eight inches below where it would need to reach.

"Not even close," you narrate for the camera. "These fit perfectly on Friday. Now they won't go past my thighs."

Mia zooms in on where the denim cuts into your leg. "Try the twenty-sixes."

You peel off the twenty-fours and reach for the next size.

CXLIV.

You lower the size twenty-six jeans—which made it to your hips but wouldn't button—and turn to face Mia directly.

"You should try on some clothes too," you say. "We can film couple content together. Both of us in the mirror, comparing sizes, that kind of thing."

Mia's expression shifts—surprise, then consideration. "You want me in frame with you?"

"Obviously." You gesture at her phone still recording on the bench. "Our subscribers want to see us together. That's the whole point of GingerAndBrownie. Plus it's more interesting than just watching me struggle with denim for ten minutes."

"Fair point." Mia picks up her phone, stopping the recording. "What do you want me to try on?"

"Whatever you want. Jeans, dresses, whatever fits the narrative." You grab an apple strudel from the pastry bag, taking a large bite. Flaky pastry and warm apple filling dissolve on your tongue. "Just grab some sizes and come back."

Mia slips out of the fitting room, and you hear her footsteps receding toward the main floor. You finish the strudel in three more bites, licking sugar glaze from your fingers. The food sits heavy in your stomach—milkshake, custard, chicken, pastries layering atop each other in a dense mass.

She returns within five minutes carrying an armful of clothing—several pairs of jeans in what look like size thirty-six and thirty-eight, a few flowing tops, a bodycon dress in deep burgundy.

"Okay," Mia says, hanging the items on the remaining hooks. "How do we film this?"

"Set up the phone to capture both of us in the mirror," you suggest. "We'll do a split comparison. You try on your size, I try on mine, we stand next to each other."

Mia positions her phone on the bench, angling it toward the full-length mirror mounted on the back wall. The frame captures both of you—you standing in just your underwear, Mia still fully dressed.

"Should I strip down first?" Mia asks.

"Might as well," you say. "More authentic."

Mia pulls her shirt over her head, revealing a black bra straining against her breasts. Then she unbuttons her jeans—the denim slides down her thick thighs, pooling at her feet. She steps out of them, standing in matching black underwear.

You start recording. "Alright, so we're doing couple try-on content. My super-fat lovie and I are going to compare sizes and see how we look together."

Mia picks up a pair of size thirty-six jeans—dark wash skinny style. "These are my current size," she tells the camera. "Let's see if they still fit after that milkshake."

She steps into them, pulling upward. The denim slides over her thighs, her hips, settling at her waist. She buttons them easily—they fit perfectly, hugging her curves without straining.

"Still good," she announces, turning to show the camera her profile.

You pick up the size twenty-eight jeans you haven't tried yet. "Let's see if I've graduated to twenty-eights."

To be continued... by you?

These are the symbiote aesthetics and their respective monikers that can be selected and played in my game Supreme Symbiote Hosting on Infinite Worlds.

From Left to Right:

1. Riotous Metallic (masculine)
2. Rosso-Nero Carnaggio (masculine)
3. Obsidian-Origin Alabaster-Arachnid (masculine)
4. Pining Purple-Pink (feminine)
5. Venomous Black (feminine)
6. Venomous Purple (feminine)
7. Yelling Yellow (feminine)

SAUCE:

• Play Supreme Symbiote Hosting on Infinite Worlds: https://infiniteworlds.app/shared/MwzUcJ
• My DeviantArt gallery with all my Supreme Symbiote Hosting deviations: https://www.deviantart.com/ninaneverland/gallery/100593987/supreme-symbiote-hosting

Supreme Symbiote Hosting is an interactive game on Infinite Worlds that I've created.

CHOOSE from OUTRAGEOUS OPTIONS to create your very own personalized experience:

• Every Player Character has a unique GAME SCENARIO!
• Every Player Character has distinct SYMBIOTE ABILITIES!
• Two Additional Player Characters with max stats for SANDBOX games.
• SYMBIOTE AESTHETICs each with their own STUNNING PHOTOREALISTIC LOOK ranging from the classic Venom aesthetic to a writhing, constantly shifting, and bioluminescent symbiote with luxurious hair!
• Symbiote's SENTIENCE and Level of CONTROL over you fully adjustable!
• and COMPLETE FREEDOM of CHOICE when ADDING PERSONALITY TRAITS to Symbiote! Do you want to be fused to a possessive, funny, and protective symbiote or are you more of the excitable type preferring a symbiote that's violent, impulsive, and horny*?*

Playing is as easy as typing what you want to happen next and the game will oblige no matter what. With the available options you can make every run a unique experience that has a wildly different story as well as specific gameplay depending on your choices.

Infinite Worlds offers virtually limitless freedom and the possibility to do things I haven't even considered anyone might do. So make sure you're not holding back when you're about to realize your symbiote fantasy.

If you prefer old-school reading, however, here is a play through of my own. Here is the play through on my DeviantArt with in-line images. Enjoy! 💋

✨✨✨

⚞⌃ ⌃⚟

Character: Serena Måne

21-year-old female Scandinavian student from Stockholm living in Vienna. She looks harmless and innocent but might just be more unfazed than an action hero which is owed to the fact that, in most situations, her interest and curiosity for new experiences will outweigh any reservations she might have had. While she's perfectly well-adjusted, once alone and without anyone who might be bothered by it, she's more than happy to satisfy her morbid curiosity.

She studies forensic psychiatry and is particularly interested in the minds of criminals who want to achieve some type of transformation through their deeds ever since she watched 'The Silence of the Lambs' when she still had been way too young for it.

If she could choose a superpower for herself, it would be shapeshifting.

Character Selection Choices:

• Symbiote Sentience Level: 5 [fully sentient]
• Symbiote Control Level: 7 [merged hybrid identity]
• Symbiote Aesthetic: Pining Purple-Pink (feminine)
• Symbiote Personality Traits: «violent, impulsive, horny»

Symbiote Abilities:

• Lv. 3 SHAPESHIFTING
• Lv. 1 WEAPONRY
• Lv. 3 TENTACLES
• Lv. 2 DURABILITY
• Lv. 3 REGENERATION
• Lv. 2 STRENGTH
• Lv. 3 AGILITY
• Lv. 0 WEBBING
• Lv. 3 FLIGHT
• Lv. 3 ENERGY

Story Background:

A symbiote is about to bond to you. An exclamation mark at the end of a long chain of events that has led to yourself.

What was it? How had it gotten here? Where did it originate from? Those questions remain unanswered for now.

Only one thing is for certain, it will change your life like nothing else has ever done before...

I.

The screen glows against your face as the facehugger's proboscis penetrates the heroine's throat, and your fingers work frantically between your legs. The violation on screen triggers something primal - the fusion of terror and arousal, the complete surrender of control. Your breath catches, your thighs tremble, and the orgasm crashes through you in waves that leave you gasping.

You're still catching your breath, eyes half-closed, when you feel it. Not your own wetness - something else. Something warm and alive sliding across your hand.

Your eyes snap open. In the dim park lighting, you see it - a glossy, dark magenta substance flowing over your fingers like living oil. It's beautiful and horrifying, moving with deliberate purpose up your wrist, across your forearm. You should pull away. You should run. But your body won't respond, frozen in fascination as the alien material spreads.

"What..." you whisper, but the word dies as the symbiote reaches your elbow, then your shoulder. It's not painful - quite the opposite. Where it touches, your skin tingles with an electric sensation that's almost pleasurable. Almost erotic.

The substance flows across your chest, down your torso. You watch, transfixed, as it consumes your clothing, replacing fabric with its own glossy surface. Your skirt dissolves into magenta goo that reforms as part of the spreading mass. The crop top vanishes beneath the tide of alien material.

Then it reaches your core - the place still sensitive from your orgasm - and you gasp. The sensation is overwhelming, like a thousand nerve endings firing at once. The symbiote pulses there, almost curious, and you feel something else. A presence. Not just material, but consciousness.

Hello, something purrs in your mind. Not words exactly, but meaning that translates itself. Such interesting thoughts you have. Such delicious darkness.

The bonding completes in a rush. The symbiote flows up your neck, across your face. For one terrifying moment you can't breathe - and then you can, better than before. Your vision sharpens. Your hearing amplifies. You can feel the symbiote settling into every cell, every nerve, becoming part of you.

We're going to have so much fun together, the presence whispers, and you feel its hunger - raw, violent, sexual. It matches something in yourself that you've always kept hidden.

You look down at your hands. They're your hands, but covered in glossy magenta that shifts and flows. You're still you. But you're also something more.

PERK UNLOCKED: CLOTHES

«You feel a certain malleability within the suit, an ability for it to disguise itself. Experimentally, you picture your favorite outfit. When you open your eyes and look in the mirror, you see that the suit has shifted to match the vision in your mind.»

PERK UNLOCKED: RETRACT

«You look at your suit wondering if you can hide it, when you feel it respond to your desires, slithering into your orifices and dissolving into your skin. In a matter of seconds you are standing naked in front of the mirror. You think about it coming back and the process reverses, and you are wearing your suit once more.»

PERK UNLOCKED: MOLD

«You've felt it adjust your body in subtle ways thus far as you have each adapted to the presence of the other, but you now realize that it can do so much more. Not just to you, but to others as well if you can keep a hold of them long enough. The suit can change physical features within human ranges: growing or shrinking, changing skin, eye, or hair color, muscles, growing or shrinking sex characteristics, even changing genders.»

TENTACLE VARIETY GAINED: GOOEY TENTACLES

«The tentacles your suit can create, while solid and strong, seem to shift shape, oozing and sticking to itself and objects like slime. It doesn't leave a residue unless you want it too. Its shape is malleable, but takes effort to maintain, otherwise it looks like goop or slime. It definitely has its uses.»

Objective:

Your objective for this adventure is: Gain full control over the symbiotic bond or reach a mutual understanding with your symbiote.

II.

You rise to your feet, your voice carrying into the cool evening air with an almost surreal casualness given what you're about to do. "Hello, I am Serena. What's your name?"

The presence in your mind—no, the presence that IS part of your mind now—responds with a ripple of amusement and hunger. You don't will the transformation so much as allow it. The barrier between you and the symbiote dissolves completely.

The glossy magenta material erupts across your skin like wildfire. Your clothes don't tear or fall away—they simply cease to exist as the symbiote consumes and replaces them. The sensation is orgasmic, every nerve ending lighting up as the alien material flows over you, reshaping you.

Your body changes. Your hips widen dramatically, your ass swells into a pronounced, round shape. Your breasts grow, becoming perky and impossibly soft as the symbiote restructures your flesh. You feel your spine elongate slightly, your posture shifting into something predatory yet hyperfeminine.

The transformation reaches your head. Your face stretches, your mouth widening impossibly as rows of razor-sharp teeth emerge. Your tongue—oh god, your tongue—extends nearly two feet, thick and dripping with viscous saliva. You can taste the air, smell the park in ways your human senses never could.

Strands of dark magenta and purple symbiote goo erupt from your scalp, styled like professionally done hair but moving with organic life. Between them, actual symbiote-hair grows, thick and lush. Organic protrusions branch from your back and shoulders, not quite wings but beautiful in their alien horror.

Veins of glowing magenta energy pulse beneath the glossy surface of your new skin, running along pathways that make your body look like a living circuit board. Purple light glows beneath, making you radiant in the darkness.

I am called many things, the voice—your voice—their voice—purrs in your shared consciousness. But you may call me Vex. We are magnificent together, aren't we?

You look down at your transformed body, at the way the streetlight catches on your glossy, shifting surface. You flex your clawed hands experimentally. The power coursing through you is intoxicating.

So what now, Serena? Vex asks, and you can feel her excitement matching your own. Shall we hunt? Play? There are so many delicious possibilities in this city.

PERK UNLOCKED: PHASING

«Phasing lets you pass through physical phenomena and/or effects, allowing you to move through solid objects and ignore most physical obstacles in you way; the exact means of how this is achieved is unknown but it is likely that the mechanism exploits the fact that solid matter is mainly made up of empty space. You can also reach into and through solid barriers in order to extract what's inside.»

III.

"We are Havoc," the words emerge from your elongated mouth in a voice that's yours and not yours—sultry, predatory, layered with harmonics that shouldn't exist in a human throat.

Havoc, Vex purrs in your shared consciousness. I like it. We like it.

You feel inside yourselves—the distinction between 'you' and 'her' blurring into something singular and plural at once. Your consciousness exists in layers now, thoughts flowing between human rationality and alien hunger without clear boundaries. It's disorienting and exhilarating, like being drunk on power and possibility.

The moment you think about moving upward, your body responds. The organic protrusions on your back unfurl, not quite wings but generating thrust through means your human mind can't quite comprehend. Energy courses through the glowing magenta veins running across your symbiote skin, and you launch.

The ground falls away so fast it makes your stomach lurch—or would, if you still had a normal human digestive system. Trees become dark smudges, the park paths turn into thin lines, the scattered lights of Vienna spread out below like stars reflected in dark water. The wind screams past you but the symbiote's surface remains sleek, aerodynamic, cutting through air resistance as if it doesn't exist.

Faster, Vex urges, and you feel her excitement matching your own. Show me what this body can do!

You pour more energy into the flight, and your velocity increases exponentially. The city becomes a glowing map beneath you. You can see the Danube cutting through Vienna like a dark ribbon, the illuminated spire of St. Stephen's Cathedral, the sprawling palace complex of Schönbrunn to the west. The temperature drops as you climb, but you don't feel cold—the symbiote regulates everything.

The cloud layer approaches, a ceiling of grey-white mist illuminated from below by the city lights. You punch through it without slowing, and suddenly you're in a different world. Above the clouds, the air is crystalline clear. Stars scatter across the black sky with a brilliance you've never seen from ground level. The moon hangs huge and bright, its light turning the cloud tops below into a rolling silver ocean.

Beautiful, Vex whispers, and for a moment you feel something unexpected from her—wonder, untainted by hunger or violence. I've never seen this before. My previous hosts... they never flew like this.

You hover there, suspended between earth and space, feeling the incredible power thrumming through your merged form. Below, Vienna sleeps, unaware that something new and dangerous has been born in its midst.

So what now? Vex asks, her voice taking on that predatory edge again. We could go anywhere. Do anything. The night is ours.

IV.

You angle downward, descending through the cloud layer in a controlled dive. The mist parts around your glossy magenta form as Vienna's lights grow brighter below. Let me choose, Vex suggests, and you feel her scanning the cityscape with senses that go beyond human sight.

She guides you toward the 7th district, Neubau—a neighborhood of art galleries, trendy cafes, and converted industrial buildings. You land on the flat roof of a renovated warehouse, your organic protrusions retracting as your feet touch down with barely a sound. The rooftop is cluttered with old HVAC equipment and ventilation ducts, providing plenty of cover.

From this vantage point, you can see the street below. It's late enough that foot traffic has thinned, but Vienna never truly sleeps. A couple walks past, the woman's laughter carrying up to you. A taxi cruises by. Through a lit window across the street, you can see someone working late at a computer.

So ordinary, Vex muses in your shared consciousness. They have no idea what walks among them now.

You're about to respond when your phone—somehow still intact and functional despite the transformation, perhaps absorbed into the symbiote's mass—buzzes with a notification. You will it to manifest, and the glossy surface of your hand shifts, the device emerging like it's growing from your palm.

The message is from Florian Metz. You know him peripherally—he's in Vienna's creative scene, throws parties that attract an eclectic crowd. The text reads: "Last minute invite! Party tonight at my place. Penthouse loft, Lindengasse 42. Starts at 10:30. Come if you're free—would love to see you. -F"

The address is only a few blocks from where you're standing.

A party, Vex purrs, and you can feel her interest spike. So many people in one place. So many possibilities. What are you thinking, Serena?

You look down at your transformed body—the glowing veins, the glossy alien surface, the clawed hands. You'd need to shift back to human form, obviously. But the invitation presents an interesting opportunity. Florian's parties always draw interesting people—artists, performers, the kind of creative types who push boundaries.

We could hunt there, Vex suggests, her tone eager. Or just... play. See how people react to what we can become. Or we could find something else entirely. The city is full of secrets tonight.

V.

You feel the transformation ripple through you as Vex responds to your intentions. The glossy magenta surface melts away, retracting beneath your skin in waves of pleasurable tingles. Your elongated features compress back to human proportions, teeth shrinking, tongue shortening. The organic protrusions fold away as if they never existed.

Within seconds you're standing naked on the rooftop, the cool night air kissing your bare skin. But not for long. You picture exactly what you want—the shiny outfit, the curves, the hair—and Vex flows outward again, this time in disguise.

The symbiote material emerges from your pores, but instead of its natural magenta glossiness, it mimics fabric perfectly. Tight black vinyl pants materialize around your legs, hugging curves that Vex simultaneously enhances. Your hips widen, your ass swells into a pronounced round shape. A fitted pink satin blouse forms across your torso, and you feel your breasts grow fuller, creating dramatic cleavage as the fabric settles.

Mmm, I like this body, Vex purrs approvingly as she works. So soft. So fertile-looking.

Your French plait unravels itself, blonde hair cascading down past your shoulders in perfectly tousled waves that look professionally styled. Your face shifts subtly—cheekbones more defined, lips slightly fuller, eyes lined with perfect smoky shadow that isn't makeup at all but symbiote precision. You look like you've spent hours getting ready when the whole transformation took less than thirty seconds.

You will your phone back into existence in your hand and check your reflection in its black screen. Fucking gorgeous. The vinyl pants catch the light with every movement, the satin blouse drapes perfectly over your enhanced curves. You look like you belong on a runway, not a Vienna rooftop.

Ready to play? Vex asks, excitement threading through her tone.

You descend from the building via the fire escape, your enhanced agility making the climb effortless even in this form. The street level feels different now—you're aware of every person's heartbeat, every scent on the wind, every potential threat or opportunity.

Lindengasse 42 is a converted industrial building with a modern glass entrance. The penthouse buzzer reads "F. Metz." You press it.

"Hello?" Florian's voice crackles through the intercom.

"Flo, it's Serena. Got your message."

"Serena! Fantastic! Come up, top floor."

The door buzzes open. You take the elevator, watching the floors tick by while Vex hums contentedly in your mind. When the doors open directly into Florian's loft, you step into warmth and conversation.

VI.

The loft opens before you in waves of warm light and conversation. Exposed brick walls frame floor-to-ceiling windows that showcase Vienna's nightscape. Modern furniture clusters around a central space where people hold drinks and lean in close to talk over the ambient electronic music pulsing from hidden speakers.

So many heartbeats, Vex murmurs in your shared consciousness. So many chemical signatures. This is fascinating.

Florian spots you immediately and crosses the room. He's a ginger with freckles scattered across his face, green eyes bright with pleasure. "Serena! You look absolutely stunning." He kisses both your cheeks in greeting, and you catch the scent of expensive cologne mixed with champagne. "Come in, let me get you a drink. What would you like?"

"Champagne sounds perfect," you say, following him toward a bar setup near the windows.

The redhead finds you attractive, Vex observes. Elevated heart rate, dilated pupils, pheromone spike. And over there—the dark-haired woman in the emerald dress. She's been watching you since you entered.

Florian pours you champagne in a proper flute. "Most people here are from the art scene. That's Henrik over there, he does graphic design. The woman in green is Amara, performance artist. And—oh, you have to meet Sophie. She just arrived from Munich."

He gestures to a woman standing by the windows, holding a wine glass. She has warm brown eyes, chestnut hair in loose waves, wearing a flowing burgundy dress. When she turns and sees you, something flickers across her face—interest, definite interest.

Now her, Vex purrs. Her attraction signature is very strong. And something else... suppressed desire. She wants something she doesn't let herself have.

Florian leads you over. "Sophie, this is Serena. Serena, my sister Sophie. She's a therapist, just moved back to Austria."

Sophie extends her hand, and when you take it, her grip lingers just a fraction too long. "It's wonderful to meet you, Serena. Florian's mentioned you before." Her voice is warm, slightly breathy. "That outfit is incredible. The vinyl catches the light beautifully."

She's staring at your breasts, Vex notes with amusement. Trying not to, but failing. This one has secrets.

Across the room, you spot another potential interest—a tall man with dark skin and an athletic build, laughing with a group near the kitchen area. His eyes keep drifting your way.

"Your first time at one of Flo's parties?" Sophie asks, taking a sip of wine, her gaze never quite leaving you.

VII.

You turn your full attention to Sophie, letting the rest of the party blur into background noise. "This is actually my first time here," you say, stepping slightly closer. The movement brings you into her personal space, close enough that you can smell her perfume—something floral with vanilla undertones. "Tell me about Munich. What brought you back to Austria?"

Sophie's pupils dilate fractionally. She takes another sip of wine, buying herself a moment. "Oh, work mostly. I had a good practice there, but... sometimes you need a fresh start, you know?" Her gaze flicks down to your cleavage again before snapping back up. "What about you? Florian mentioned you're studying something interesting?"

She's deflecting, Vex observes. Hiding something. Her heart rate just spiked when she mentioned 'fresh start.' There's pain there. Recent pain.

"Forensic psychiatry," you say, holding her gaze. "I study why people do the things they do. The hidden motivations. The desires they don't talk about." You let that hang in the air between you, watching how she processes it.

Sophie's breath catches, just barely. "That sounds... intense. Do you find people are usually honest about what they want?"

Now we're getting somewhere, Vex purrs. Push a little more.

"Not usually," you say softly. "Most people spend their whole lives pretending to be something they're not. Denying themselves what they really crave." You lean in slightly. "What about you, Sophie? Are you honest about what you want?"

The question lands like a physical touch. Sophie's hand tightens around her wine glass, her knuckles going white. For a moment you think she might retreat, make an excuse to talk to someone else. But then something shifts in her expression—determination mixing with fear.

"I used to be," she says quietly, her voice dropping so only you can hear over the music. "When I was younger. At university. Then I... convinced myself it was just experimentation. That I needed to be more practical."

Oh, this is delicious, Vex whispers in your shared consciousness. She wants women. She wants YOU. But she's terrified of it.

"That sounds exhausting," you say. "Pretending."

Sophie laughs, but there's no humor in it. "You have no idea." Her eyes meet yours directly now, and there's something raw and desperate in them. "Can I ask you something forward?"

"Please do."

"Are you... do you..." She struggles with the words, then abandons the attempt at subtlety. "That outfit. The way you move. You're not straight, are you?"

The directness surprises you—and excites you. "No," you say simply. "I'm very much not straight."

Sophie closes her eyes briefly, like she's made some kind of internal decision. When she opens them again, they're darker with want. "I haven't been with a woman since university. Six years ago. My family doesn't know. Florian doesn't know." She's speaking quickly now, words tumbling out like a confession. "I see you standing there looking like that and I just... god, I feel like I'm going insane."

VIII.

You reach out, your fingertips grazing Sophie's bare forearm. The contact is electric—you feel her pulse quicken beneath your touch, feel the heat of her skin. Her breath hitches audibly.

"I enjoy driving you insane," you say, letting your voice drop to something intimate and conspiratorial. "I did that on purpose."

Sophie stares at you, her wine glass forgotten in her other hand. Her lips part slightly, and for a moment she looks like she might say something sharp, defensive. Instead, a laugh escapes her—breathless and slightly unhinged. "You're dangerous," she whispers.

She's about three seconds from kissing you, Vex observes with amusement. Or running away. Could go either way.

But then something else catches your attention. Your enhanced senses—Vex's senses, your merged awareness—suddenly sharpen. It's like a frequency you hadn't been tuned to suddenly comes into focus.

Someone at this party doesn't fit.

You can't pinpoint exactly what triggers it. Maybe it's the way someone's breathing pattern is too controlled. Maybe it's pheromone signatures that don't match their body language. Maybe it's the forensic psychology training in your human brain combining with Vex's predatory instincts to form something new—a hybrid perception that sees patterns others miss.

What is that? Vex murmurs, her attention splitting between Sophie and this new awareness.

You scan the room without moving your head, using peripheral vision enhanced beyond human capacity. There—near the kitchen area. A woman in her early thirties, dark hair pulled back in a severe ponytail, wearing an expensive charcoal suit that seems out of place at this art scene gathering. She's talking to Henrik, the graphic designer, but her body language is wrong. Too rigid. Too aware of her surroundings.

That one, Vex confirms. Something's off. Her heartbeat is too steady. She's controlling it consciously.

Your forensic training kicks in. Someone who can regulate their autonomic nervous system that precisely has either extensive meditation training or... other reasons to need that level of control. Profilers. Undercover operatives. Or people who've learned to suppress their natural reactions because those reactions would give away something dangerous.

"Serena?" Sophie's voice pulls you back. She's looking at you with concern mixed with lingering desire. "You okay? You just... went somewhere else for a second."

The woman in the suit just looked at us, Vex notes. For exactly 1.2 seconds. Then away. Textbook surveillance check.

Your pulse quickens—not from fear, but from excitement. This is what you study. What fascinates you. A potential predator in a room full of prey. And now you're the only one who knows.

"I'm fine," you tell Sophie, squeezing her arm gently before releasing it. "Just thought I recognized someone."

To be continued... by you?