The Knight Croissant @croisants - Tumblr Blog

My Infinite Worlds Index (Update May 24th)

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EVERY FACE IS A DOOR.

my complete Infinite Worlds index.

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I've always been drawn to RPGs where I control the decisions — but most games give you two or three choices and call it freedom.

The bigger problem: a lot of the stories I actually wanted to play just don't exist. Shapeshifters running escort services. Janitors who wake up in a coach's body and decide to stay. Dead lovers possessing strangers to reach you one more time. Nobody's greenlit those games. So I built them myself.

Some of these worlds are also inspired by stories floating around Tumblr — so if something feels familiar, it probably is. I built the IW version because I wanted those stories to actually live and breathe. To move. To let you be the one making the calls.

Infinite Worlds (infiniteworlds.app) is an AI-driven interactive fiction platform — think choose-your-own-adventure, except the AI writes whatever you decide with no fixed branches, no predetermined endings, and no guardrails on what's possible. Every choice is yours. Every consequence is real.

oh, and every turn comes with an AI-generated illustration. some of my worlds also let you pick your language at the start — a pop-up will ask before the story begins.

If you don't have an account yet: new users get 1,200 free credits + 2–3 free turns every day just for signing up. Enough to explore before you commit to anything.

Everything below is mine. Pick a door.

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Newest Stories

──────────────────────────────── [ 🟦 GOO'D INTENTIONS SERIES · possession · multiple hosts · dark comedy · erotic horror ] Inspired by Student Bodies at writing.com by @seuzz

David Sullivan dissolved into iridescent blue slime in a lab accident. He was supposed to disappear. Instead he became something hungry, something free — and every person around him became a door waiting to be opened. Same slime. Different playground every time.

Goo'd Intentions: The Whitmore Slime Story ↳ infiniteworlds.app/shared/gYQxdtz

What if a lab accident gave you the power to slip inside anyone on campus — and one semester was all you needed to own Whitmore University completely? tags: campus · 20+ hosts · multiple possession · dark comedy

Goo'd Intentions: Hard Time Behind Bars ↳ infiniteworlds.app/shared/9ma7eg

What if you hitched a ride in the wrong van and ended up inside a federal prison — 847 inmates, 23 guards, one warden, nowhere to run, all yours? tags: prison · multiple hosts · power hierarchy · dark comedy

Goo'd Intentions: Bon Voyage — A Cruise Story ↳ infiniteworlds.app/shared/HMxFiR

What if you slipped into a cargo crate at the Port of Miami and woke up aboard a luxury cruise ship with 3,000 passengers and nowhere for anyone to hide? tags: cruise ship · 10+ hosts · class hierarchy · dark comedy

Goo'd Intention: Whitmore Slime Story - Maarten Van Dijk

If you wanna have your own adventure on Goo'd Intentions series, click here:

Whitmore Slime Story (Campus Area): https://infiniteworlds.app/shared/gYQxdt

Hard Time Behind Bars (Prison Area):https://infiniteworlds.app/shared/9ma7eg

Bon Voyage — A Cruise Story: https://infiniteworlds.app/shared/HMxFiR

== Goo'd Intentions: The Whitmore Slime Story ==

-- Character Name

Maarten Van Dijk

----------

Maarten van Dijk is a 29-year-old Dutch male graduate student pursuing his PhD in Materials Engineering at Whitmore University. Standing at an imposing 7'2" with enormous, densely muscular build, short textured ash-blonde hair, and sharp grey-blue eyes, Maarten is physically impossible to ignore. His fair skin, strong elongated jawline, massive chest, and powerful thick arms make him a striking figure on campus. Despite his enormous physical scale, Maarten carries himself with quiet precision and speaks in measured tones with a faint Dutch accent. He's methodical, intensely focused on his research involving stress-testing composite materials, and somewhat socially isolated due to his intimidating appearance and tendency toward cold efficiency. Maarten rows crew for the university team, where his extraordinary strength makes him an asset despite joining the sport late. He's respectful but emotionally distant, preferring the predictable world of data and calculations to the messiness of social dynamics. His cold, steady gaze has unnerved more than a few undergrads. For David, possessing Maarten would mean access to graduate research facilities, the engineering departments, international student networks, and a body that commands instant physical authority wherever it goes.

-- Story Background --

Three days ago I was hunched over a centrifuge in the university's restricted biogenetics lab at 2 AM, running an unauthorized experiment on synthetic protoplasm. I'd stolen the access codes from Professor Whitfield's laptop — child's play for someone who'd been hacking campus systems since freshman year.

The explosion was silent. More of an implosion, really. One moment I was a gangly twenty-one-year-old with bad skin and worse social skills. The next, my bones were dissolving, my flesh liquefying, my consciousness spreading through a warm blue puddle on the laboratory floor.

For six hours I thought I was dead.

Then I thought: this is hell. A consciousness without a body, spread across cold laboratory tile, unable to scream, unable to do anything except exist as sensation — the hum of fluorescent lights, the drip of a faucet, the particular smell of spilled reagent soaking into grout.

Then I moved. Just a little. A pseudopod, maybe, though I didn't have that word for it yet. Just — extension. Intention made physical in a way it had never been when I had hands.

That's when I understood I wasn't dead.

That's when everything got interesting.

Here's what David Sullivan was before the accident:

A 21-year-old biochemistry student with a 3.8 GPA and zero social capital. The kind of person who exists in negative space — you notice the empty chair before you notice the person sitting in it.

Four years at Whitmore and I'd had exactly one real conversation — with Caleb, my roommate, who was just as invisible as me. Everyone else was transactional at best.

I had notebooks. Everyone has notebooks, but mine were different. Mine were detailed. Specific. The kind of specific that would get a hard drive confiscated if anyone found it. Fantasies about people I'd never speak to, scenarios that required a godlike level of access I would never, ever have.

I burned them every six months. Started fresh.

I don't need notebooks anymore.

Now it's Monday morning. Whitmore University:

47,000 people moving through interconnected spaces like blood through a body.

Four years I spent on the outside of all of it. The parties I wasn't invited to. The study groups that formed around me like water around a stone. The professor who learned my name on the last day of the semester.

The sensation of sliding into another person — feeling their warmth envelope me, their neural pathways lighting up like a switchboard under my tendrils — was the most intimate thing I'd ever experienced. And I, David Sullivan, campus pervert, chronic masturbator, collector of fantasies too depraved to share with anyone, realized that every impossible thing I'd ever wanted was now grotesquely, beautifully possible.

Three days ago I dissolved into the floor of a biogenetics lab. This morning I woke up in a bed that isn't mine, in a body that isn't mine, with a calendar full of meetings I'm going to enjoy very much.

A new week. A new me.

And I'm already inside someone important.

-- Turn 1 --

-------

The alarm is a Dutch radio station playing something synthed and incomprehensible. I slap at it with a hand the size of a dinner plate, and the sensation stops you cold.

Seven-foot-two feels like being on stilts made of concrete. Everything is further away and closer at the same time. My—his—voice resonates in a chest cavity big enough to house a family of four. I could break a man in half. Christ, I could break a door in half.

I sit up and the mattress groans. The ceiling is only three feet above your head—Maarten's head. Custom extra-long bed frame, you realize, because standard furniture doesn't account for genetic lottery winners who look like they were assembled from Viking spare parts.

The Surface Read hits before I can brace for it:

Loneliness that tastes like protein powder. The weight of a body that makes people step aside in hallways. A memory of his mother's voice on a video call yesterday—"Maartenliefje, you work too much, you need to go out, meet people"—and the careful lie he told her about having dinner plans this week. He has no dinner plans. He never has dinner plans.

It fades. I'm alone again in the enormous geography of borrowed limbs.

The room is aggressively minimal. IKEA desk bolted to the wall, reinforced office chair rated for 400 pounds, a single framed photo of a rowing team at sunrise. Textbooks stacked in perfect right angles. A whiteboard covered in stress calculations and material tolerances. The closet door is open, revealing a line of identical grey hoodies, each sized XXXL, each hanging with two inches between them like soldiers at attention.

I swing my legs—his legs—over the side of the bed. My feet hit the floor with a impact that rattles the water glass on the nightstand.

The schedule surfaces like an Excel spreadsheet loading in my brain: 8am lab meeting with Professor Valdez and the other Materials Engineering graduate students. 10am teaching assistant duty for undergraduate Thermodynamics. Noon: gym, then crew practice at 2pm. Evening: solo work in the composites lab until whenever exhaustion or data completion wins.

No social obligations. No romantic entanglements. No distractions.

Perfect, I think, running Maarten's massive hands through his short ash-blonde hair. A body people actually look at, attached to a life where nobody expects conversation.

I stand, and the room rearranges itself around my new height. The mirror on the back of the door shows me what I am now: shoulders that could carry an ox, arms roped with dense muscle, a face that's handsome in the same way a cliff face is handsome—impressive, remote, carved by something other than kindness.

I flex an arm experimentally. The bicep swells like a geography lesson.

Maarten's phone buzzes on the desk. A text from someone named "Valdez": Reminder - bring your tensile strength data to lab meeting. Also, we're discussing TA assignments for next semester. Be prepared to advocate for the sections you want.

I feel Maarten's instinctive anxiety response—the tightness in the solar plexus, the urge to check the data three more times even though he checked it last night. The desperate need to be perceived as competent, as worthy of the space this body demands.

Such a good boy. So worried about disappointing people.

I could go deeper. Really swim through his memories, find out what makes this giant tick, what he thinks about when he rows in the pre-dawn dark, why someone built like a Greek statue lives like a monk.

Or I could just ride the surface. Show up to the lab meeting, play the part, see what opportunities present themselves when you're wearing a body that commands rooms just by entering them.

- - - - -

Your objective for this adventure is: To infiltrate and dominate at least 5 different social spheres of Whitmore University by possessing key figures in each, fully integrating their minds — and possess Professor Whitfield to secure total control of the narrative — orchestrating them all together in a grand demonstration of your total power.

- - - - -

#ai generated #male transformation #infinite worlds #male shapeshifter #hot male #interactive fiction #male bodybuilder #interactive story #interactivefiction #male possession #male body swap #body swap #cyoa #cyoa game

INFINITE WORLDS - GOO'D INTENTIONS: THE WHITMORE SLIME STORY

You used to watch from the outside.

Now you're inside — literally.

You, David Sullivan, dissolved into a few pounds of iridescent blue slime in a lab accident and became something better. Something that gets to have everything a campus pervert ever dreamed of.

Slip inside anyone. Wear their life. Access their memories, their desires, their networks. When you leave — they remember everything as their own choice. No gaps. No suspicion. Just Whitmore University, slowly, completely yours. The quarterback. The sorority queen. The professor you used to fantasize about in her own lectures.

Split into 20. Run an entire campus simultaneously.

Own every social sphere at once.

20+ hosts. Every fantasy. No limits.

One semester. Total dominion.

_________________________________________

This is an interactive story at Infiniteworlds.app,

heavily inspired by Student Bodies at writing.com by @seuzz.

Start here: https://infiniteworlds.app/shared/gYQxdt

If you don't have an account yet: new users get 1,200 free credits + 2–3 free turns every day just for signing up.

You used to watch from the outside. Now you're inside — literally. You, David Sullivan, dissolved into a few pounds of iridescent blue sli

_________________________________________

Who's your first host?

#infinite worlds #interactive fiction #body swap #possession #mind control #shapeshifter #erotic horror #dark comedy #campus #ai generated #male shapeshifter #male shapeshift #hot male #interactive story #interactivefiction #rpg #story

Rewrite Reality on Facebook

What if you found an ancient computer with a Facebook account that could rewrite anyone's reality — job, appearance, relationships, memories — and no one remembered the old version but you?

Here the story walkthrough on Infinite Worlds. You can have your own story by click here

You just moved into a cheap rental when you found it: an ancient desktop computer in the spare bedroom, still running. On the screen — a Fac

Each player option have various background and unique feature. If you wanna try it, choose wisely.

If you don't have an account yet at infiniteworld.app: new users get 1,200 free credits + 2–3 free turns every day just for signing up. Enough to explore before you commit to anything.

Character Name: Alejandro Rivera

Background

A 32-year-old man built like a tank, with broad shoulders and arms that strain against his shirt sleeves. Alejandro works as a personal trainer at a commercial gym downtown, spending his days spotting clients and his evenings meal-prepping chicken and rice in bulk. He's disciplined to the point of rigidity — everything scheduled, everything tracked.

Came to the city three years ago after a messy divorce back in Phoenix, using bodybuilding as both armor and identity. He's friendly in a surface-level way, quick with gym bro encouragement, but deeply uncomfortable with emotional vulnerability. Sees the computer as a tool, not a moral dilemma. His first instinct is always to optimize, to fix problems with the same methodical approach he brings to his training splits.

Unique Feature — Optimize: Before saving any edit, Alejandro can pull up a before/after breakdown of the target's key life metrics — health, income, fitness, relationships — displayed like a training progress report. He sees exactly what the edit will change in measurable terms before committing.

Prolog

You just moved in. Boxes everywhere, half-unpacked, the place still smells like someone else's life.

That's when you notice it — tucked in the corner of the spare bedroom. A beige desktop tower, older than it has any right to be. Monitor still on. You don't remember seeing it during the walkthrough.

You sit down, mostly out of curiosity.

The screen shows Facebook. Except — it's not quite right. The layout is old. Like, really old. And the account logged in has no name, no photo, no friends.

You click around. Somehow, everyone is on here. People you know, people you've heard of, people you've never met. Every profile fully editable — job, appearance, relationship status, personality, memories. All of it, just… open fields waiting to be changed.

-- Turn 1 --

Outcome

The Friends list loads with that eerie smoothness — no lag, no buffering, just instant population. And there they are. Everyone.

I scroll past acquaintances from the gym, clients whose names I barely remember, that guy from the corner store who always tries to chat about MMA. Then the list gets sharper. More personal.

There's Marcus Chen — my ex-business partner from Phoenix. We were going to open a training facility together before everything fell apart with the divorce. Last I heard, he was still running bootcamps out of a park, barely scraping by.

Below him: Claudia Reyes, my upstairs neighbor. I've seen her maybe four times. She's got that harried single-mom energy, always juggling grocery bags and a toddler who screams at odd hours. We've exchanged maybe twenty words total.

Then there's Derek Fontaine — my boss at Iron Temple Gym. Mid-forties, protein shake in hand at all times, motivational poster vocabulary. The kind of guy who talks about 'grinding' and 'crushing goals' but pays his trainers shit and skims our tips. He's got three gyms now, drives a Tesla, posts inspirational quote graphics with his face superimposed over sunsets.

I keep scrolling.

Vanessa Torres. My ex-wife. Haven't spoken to her in two years, not since the lawyers finished carving up what little we had. Last I saw on her actual Facebook — the real one — she was engaged to some finance bro with perfect teeth.

And finally, near the bottom: Isaiah Kimani, my younger brother. Still in Phoenix, still working at the auto shop, still sending me texts I don't quite know how to answer. He thinks I left because I needed a 'fresh start.' He's not wrong, but he's not right either.

Five names. Five lives I know the dimensions of, the places where they're stuck or struggling or succeeding in ways that make my jaw tight. Five profiles with edit buttons waiting.

The cursor hovers. The room is silent except for the hum of the ancient tower.

I could open any of them. See the fields, the metrics, the before-and-after breakdowns. See exactly what I could change, and what it would cost them — or give them.

Your objective for this adventure is: The computer is yours. The only question is what you choose to do with unlimited power over anyone's reality.

#infinite worlds #male transformation #interactive fiction #ai generated #altered reality #rewrite reality

croisants

My Infinite Worlds Index (Update May 16th)

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EVERY FACE IS A DOOR.

my complete Infinite Worlds index.

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I've always been drawn to RPGs where I control the decisions — but most games give you two or three choices and call it freedom.

oh, and every turn comes with an AI-generated illustration. some of my worlds also let you pick your language at the start — a pop-up will ask before the story begins.

If you don't have an account yet: new users get 1,200 free credits + 2–3 free turns every day just for signing up. Enough to explore before you commit to anything.

Everything below is mine. Pick a door.

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Newest Stories

I'm (Not) Gay (?) ↳ infiniteworlds.app/shared/uhDNzU

What if you knew exactly what you felt, knew exactly what you believed — and had to figure out how to live with both without betraying either? not a coming-out story. not a pride journey. just a man, his faith, and the ordinary moments that ask who he really is.tags: faith · identity · same-sex attraction · quiet drama · multiple backgrounds

Reality Rewrite on Facebook ↳ infiniteworlds.app/shared/9pnvcX

What if you found an ancient computer with a Facebook account that could rewrite anyone's reality — job, appearance, relationships, memories — and no one remembered the old version but you?tags: reality warping · social media · god mode · identity

croisants

Update as May 16th

New stories:

Adult Life Series: I'm (Not) Gay (?)

Rewrite Reality on Facebook

Please DM me if you have any feedback. If you enjoy any of my worlds, a like or reblog goes a long way 🤍

#infinite worlds #interactive fiction #gay #interactive story #ai generated

menofsteel

croisants

This pic begging for a story. Any idea?

croisants

The Great Shift: Kevin's New Skin

Kevin was the textbook definition of unremarkable. A 24-year-old IT support specialist who spent his days in a dimly lit apartment, surrounded by empty instant noodle cups, three monitors, and a collection of private browser tabs he’d die before anyone discovered. Skinny, glasses-wearing, chronically single, and hopelessly perverted, Kevin had spent the last three years quietly obsessing over Derek Callahan—the ridiculously hot fitness influencer who lived in the luxury apartment next door.

Derek was everything Kevin wasn’t: 6'3", 260 pounds of competition-ready muscle, tattooed, square-jawed, and perpetually sun-kissed. Kevin had memorized every vein on those boulder shoulders, every ridge of that eight-pack, and the way Derek’s thick quads stretched his gym shorts. He’d even stolen glimpses through the balcony window more times than he cared to admit.

Then came The Great Shift.

It happened at 2:47 a.m. on a random Thursday. No warning. No explanation. Half the planet’s consciousnesses were violently yanked from their bodies and slammed into new ones. Chaos erupted worldwide—presidents waking up in teenage girls’ bodies, grandmothers in athletes, children in CEOs. Scientists called it quantum entanglement on a global scale. Kevin just called it the best and worst thing that had ever happened to him.

---

Kevin’s eyes snapped open.

Instead of staring at his cracked ceiling and the fading glow of his RGB keyboard, he was standing. Standing. His body felt… wrong. Heavy. Powerful. Every breath stretched something massive across his chest. He looked down.

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

A landscape of glistening, oil-slicked muscle greeted him. Thick, striated pecs that jutted out like armored plates. Deep-cut abs that flexed involuntarily with every panicked breath. Arms thicker than his old thighs. Veins snaking over biceps that peaked like mountains. White Calvin Klein briefs—Derek’s briefs—strained obscenely against a bulge that made Kevin’s old fantasies look pathetic.

His new hands—massive, calloused, tattooed—trembled as he touched his own chest. The skin was warm, slick with oil. The contact sent an electric jolt straight to his new cock, which twitched hard against the thin fabric.

“No… no way…” The voice that came out was deep, gravelly, and stupidly sexy. Derek’s voice.

Kevin stumbled toward the mirrored wall of what was clearly a high-end gym sauna area. The reflection that stared back was pure Derek Callahan—sweaty, pumped, wearing nothing but those tight white briefs and a backward cap. Even the small scars and tattoos matched perfectly.

Kevin’s nerd brain short-circuited.

He was in Derek.

He slowly turned, admiring the sweep of his new lats, the way his glutes filled out the briefs, the ridiculous separation in his quads. A low, involuntary moan escaped his lips. He grabbed the black towel in his hand (Derek had apparently been mid-workout) and let it drop, using both hands to grope and squeeze every inch of his new body.

“Fuck… I’m him,” Kevin whispered in that deep baritone, voice cracking with lust. “I’m Derek fucking Callahan.”

Memories that weren’t his flickered at the edges of his mind—Derek’s memories—mixing with his own. The Shift hadn’t been clean. Kevin could feel fragments: Derek’s discipline, his endless hunger for growth, the way he loved pushing his body to the brink. But Kevin’s perverted little soul was firmly in the driver’s seat.

He flexed his right bicep, watching the peak rise obscenely, then ran his hand down the deep centerline of his abs, fingers tracing the V-cut disappearing into his briefs. His new cock was already rock-hard, tenting the fabric shamelessly.

A wicked grin spread across Derek’s handsome face.

Kevin had spent years jerking off to this exact body. Now he was the body. And he had full control.

He squeezed his pecs together, watching them bounce, then turned around to admire the rear view in the mirror. The sweep of his back, the thick traps, the way his glutes flexed when he shifted his weight.

“Oh my god,” Kevin laughed—deep, rich, and dripping with lust. “I’m never going back. Even if they figure out how to reverse this, I’m staying right here.”

He picked up the black towel again, slinging it over one massive shoulder, and took a slow, deliberate selfie in the mirror—chest pumped, abs tight, that arrogant smirk perfected by years of Derek’s own mirror practice.

Somewhere across the city, the real Derek Callahan was probably waking up in Kevin’s scrawny, pale body, screaming at a monitor in nothing but old boxers.

Or else.

Kevin felt zero sympathy and didn't give a shit

He gave his reflection one last hungry look, palming the heavy weight between his legs through the briefs.

“Time to go home, big guy,” he murmured to himself. “I’ve got three years of fantasies to live out in this body… and an entire apartment building that’s about to meet the new Derek Callahan.”

He flexed one last time, admiring the way every muscle danced under the lights, then strode out of the gym area with a confident swagger that Kevin had never possessed in his old life.

The Great Shift had taken half the world’s population and thrown them into new skins.

For Kevin, it had finally given him the body he’d always deserved to worship.

And he was going to enjoy every single, throbbing, muscle-packed second of it.

Try live as Kevin (Dax) at Infinite Worlds by click here

In an instant, half of humanity woke up in someone else's body. You're one of them — and by some cosmic joke, you've landed in the body of s

croisants

Kevin strutted out of the gym area still buzzing, every step sending ripples through his new quads and making the white Calvin Klein briefs ride up slightly against his thick glutes. The oil on his skin caught the lights as he moved. He felt like a god walking — no, *Derek* walking.

He pushed open the door to the private locker room attached to the high-end fitness facility in their building. The moment he stepped inside, the cool air hit his overheated, pumped muscles. Rows of grey metal lockers lined the walls. Kevin stopped dead in front of the large mirror.

“Jesus Christ…” he breathed in that deep, velvety voice.

He had already changed into grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips, the waistband sitting just below the deep V-lines carved into his lower abs. A black baseball cap sat backward on his head, a gold chain rested against his massive chest, and the fresh pump from his workout made every muscle look even more exaggerated.

Kevin raised the black phone in his right hand — Derek’s phone, unlocked by pure muscle memory — and stared at his reflection.

Click.

The flash lit up his glistening torso. He tilted his head slightly, lips parted in that arrogant, half-smirk Derek always wore in photos. The mirror captured everything: the way his heavy pecs sat high and full, the deep striations running across them, the thick slabs of abdominal muscle stacked like bricks down to the treasure trail disappearing into his sweatpants. Every tattoo stood out against the tanned, vascular skin.

Kevin’s free hand slowly traced down his chest, fingers brushing over a tattoo on his left pec, then sliding lower across the ridges of his abs. He felt himself getting hard again under the grey fabric. The sweatpants did nothing to hide the growing bulge.

“Fuck… look at me,” he whispered, voice thick with lust. He flexed his left arm while keeping the phone steady, watching the bicep peak rise dramatically. Then he relaxed it and bounced his pecs, making them dance in the mirror. A low, needy groan escaped his throat.

In his old body, Kevin used to jerk off for hours to photos just like this. Now he *was* the photo.

He took another selfie, this time angling the phone lower to capture the full torso shot — sweatpants hanging dangerously low, the sharp cuts of his obliques framing his waist, the heavy outline of his cock clearly visible against the soft grey material. Kevin bit his lip (Derek’s lip) and let out a shaky breath.

Memories from Derek flickered again — early morning workouts, post-pump selfies for Instagram, the way women and men in the gym stared. But Kevin’s perverted mind quickly took over.

He set the phone on a locker shelf, switching to video mode. Standing in front of the mirror, he slowly ran both hands over his body — squeezing his pecs, sliding down the centerline of his abs, then gripping the waistband of the sweatpants and tugging it down just enough to expose the base of his thick shaft.

“ This is mine now,” he growled at his reflection, voice dripping with satisfaction. “All of it.”

Kevin spent the next ten minutes worshipping himself in that locker room. Flexing, posing, groping, admiring every vein, every striation, every inch of Derek Callahan’s perfect physique. He took more photos — side chest, most muscular, back shots showing the ridiculous taper of his lats. Each new picture made his cock throb harder.

Finally, he leaned against the lockers, sweatpants pulled low, chest still heaving. He stared at the last selfie he’d just taken — the exact image now burned into his mind.

A wicked smile spread across his face.

“The real Derek is probably having a mental breakdown in my old scrawny body right now,” he chuckled. “Meanwhile, I’m about to go upstairs to *his* apartment, lock the door, and spend the rest of the night getting very, very familiar with every inch of this body.”

Kevin pulled the sweatpants back up, adjusted his still-hard cock, and gave the mirror one final, cocky flex.

“Welcome to your new life, Derek,” he said softly, using the man’s own deep voice against him. “Or should I say… *my* new life.”

He grabbed his gym bag and headed for the exit, already planning round two in front of the full-length mirror in Derek’s luxury apartment.

The Great Shift had been random for most people.

For Kevin, it felt like destiny.

And he was only getting started.

#male transformation #male body swap #body swap #great shift

LuxeCompanion: Your Fetish Is Safe With Us - Connor Bryce x Captain Marcus Vitale

After I post about new IW stories here, the most voting story (just 2 vote ^_^ ) is Connor Bryce x Captain Marcus Vitale. If you wanna have your own fetish discovery please click here

This is a fully customizable sandbox. Define your ideal companion — any look, any personality, any fantasy. No limits, no judgment. Your des

You have everything. Power. Money. Respect. But behind closed doors, you have desires that would destroy it all.

LuxeCompanion is the city's most exclusive secret escort — an invitation-only service catering to the elite whose appetites go beyond what the ordinary world can provide. Choose your companion. Name your fantasy. No judgment. No limits. No consequences.

Except something isn't adding up.

Your companions always know too much. The same laugh. The same scar. The same knowing smile.

Every fantasy you've ever wanted — delivered perfectly by someone who shouldn't exist.

✦ Define your ideal companion — body, look, personality

✦ Choose your scenarios — no fantasy too dark, no desire too strange

✦ Discover your companion's secret — something doesn't add up

✦ Play your way — straight, gay, or bisexual. Your companion adapts completely.

Background

You are Connor Bryce, a 32-year-old professional rugby player for a premier league team, standing 6'4" with a powerful, heavily muscled physique sculpted by years of intense training. He's a household name — the face on sports drink commercials, the warrior fans worship from the stands. His public persona is all raw masculinity: aggressive on the field, charming in interviews, the kind of man who embodies traditional athletic prowess. But behind the endorsement deals and locker room camaraderie, Connor harbors desires that contradict everything his image represents. He's terrified of exposure, knowing that in his hyper-masculine sport, any deviation from the expected narrative could end his career and destroy the brand he's built. Privately, he's thoughtful and surprisingly gentle, exhausted by the constant performance of the man everyone expects him to be.

-- Prolog --

The city's financial district gleams forty stories below your penthouse windows. You've built an empire through ruthless ambition and calculated risks. Board meetings, shareholder calls, charity galas - your public life is impeccable. But success breeds isolation, and isolation breeds hunger.

For months, you've heard whispers among your circle about LuxeCompanion. Not from anyone directly - never directly - but in the careful silences after certain questions, the knowing glances exchanged between those who understand that power comes with appetites the vanilla world cannot satisfy.

The website is elegant, encrypted, invitation-only. Your referral code came anonymously. The service promises absolute discretion, background-checked companions, and a philosophy that no desire is too unusual if all parties consent. You've browsed the profiles dozens of times: the artist who specializes in psychological dominance, the former intelligence officer who excels at elaborate roleplay scenarios, the yoga instructor whose flexibility extends to moral boundaries.

Tonight, you finally made your first booking. In two hours, your chosen companion will arrive. Your palms are sweating despite the climate control. You've never done anything like this before - never trusted anyone with your true self.

Your phone chimes. 'Your companion is en route. Preparation code: Vermillion-7. Enjoy your experience.'

You have no idea that every profile you considered, every companion you might choose, every fantasy you'll explore - all of them are masks worn by the same impossible entity.

-- Turn 1 --

Outcome

The whiskey burns a familiar path down your throat—Macallan 18, because even your nervous rituals come with a price tag that would make most people wince. You set the crystal tumbler on the marble counter and pull up the profile again, though you've already memorized every detail.

Captain Marcus Vitale. Age 42. Former Italian special forces, now private security consultant. The photograph shows a man built like a monument—shoulders that could carry the weight of gods, arms thick as your thighs, chest broad enough to eclipse the sun. His face carries that weathered Mediterranean handsomeness: strong jaw shadowed with salt-and-pepper stubble, deep brown eyes that seem to look through the camera rather than at it, olive skin that speaks of ancestors who worked under harsher suns than any found in this sanitized city. His hair is cropped military-short, more silver than black now, and there's a scar cutting through his left eyebrow that the profile doesn't explain.

Height: 6'7". Jesus Christ.

You're 6'4" in your bare feet—one of the tallest men in any room you enter, certainly the tallest on your team. The physical advantage has always been part of your arsenal, part of the armor. The idea of someone making you feel small…

Your cock stirs in your tailored trousers. You adjust yourself, irritated at your body's Pavlovian response to mere pixels on a screen.

The scenario you requested plays through your mind again: Height difference dynamic. Commanding but gentle. Someone who can make a man my size feel… What? Protected? Dominated? Held? You couldn't articulate it in the request form, just checked boxes and typed vague phrases about "presence" and "natural authority."

Your phone chimes. Captain Vitale has arrived at your building. Front desk is sending him up.

Your heart hammers against your ribs—the same pre-game adrenaline spike you get in the tunnel before walking onto the pitch, except now there's no crowd to perform for, no teammates flanking you, no referee to enforce rules about what happens next.

You down the rest of the whiskey. Check your reflection in the darkened window—jaw tight, eyes slightly wild. Force your shoulders to relax. You're Connor fucking Bryce. You've stared down All Blacks forwards trying to tear your head off. You can handle one escort, no matter how—

The doorbell rings.

Your penthouse door. Your private sanctuary. About to open for a stranger you're paying to touch you in ways no one else is allowed to know about.

Your objective for this adventure is: To explore your hidden desires through LuxeCompanion's services - though you may discover more than you bargained for.

-- Turn 2 --

Action

OBSERVE: Take a moment to really look at him before speaking, notice everything about how he presents himself

Outcome

You don't open the door immediately. Instead, you activate the discreet security screen embedded in the wall panel—another luxury that allows you to observe without being observed.

The man standing in your hallway makes the space look smaller. That's your first thought, incongruous and unsettling. Your penthouse entrance is designed with soaring ceilings and deliberate proportions to make guests feel the weight of your success. Marcus Vitale makes it look like a child's playhouse.

He stands with his back three-quarters to the camera, hands clasped loosely behind him in a posture that reads as military even in stillness—spine straight, weight evenly distributed, head up. The black tactical jacket he wears stretches across shoulders that seem physically impossible, the fabric straining at seams designed for large men. Beneath it, a charcoal henley clings to a torso built in slabs rather than curves. His thighs test the limits of dark cargo pants that probably fit normally on anyone else.

But it's when he turns slightly, glancing at something on your wall—one of the abstract pieces your decorator insisted would "soften your masculine energy"—that you catch the full architecture of his face. The photograph didn't lie, but it flattened him into pixels. In person, there's a gravitational quality to his features. The Roman nose, the deep-set eyes that catch the hallway light and reflect it back as liquid amber-brown, the silver threaded through his close-cropped beard like veins of ore through dark stone.

He's not handsome in any conventional sense. His face has been lived in, used hard, probably broken and reset more than once. But there's a solidity to him that makes your carefully maintained beauty feel ephemeral by comparison. You've spent your adult life being the most impressive physical specimen in any given room. Right now, through a screen, this man makes you feel like an architectural sketch next to a finished cathedral.

He checks his watch—a utilitarian piece, no luxury brand signaling—and his forearm flexes with the movement. Even that small gesture reveals the dense muscle beneath his sleeve, covered in dark hair that speaks to Mediterranean genetics and zero interest in the grooming standards of your world.

You realize you've been holding your breath. Your cock is already half-hard, and he hasn't even looked at you yet. Hasn't spoken. Hasn't done anything except exist in your space with that preternatural calm that suggests violence is an option he's simply chosen not to exercise.

Your hand is on the door handle before you consciously decide to open it.

#male shapeshifter #infinite worlds #male shapeshift #hot male #shapeshifter #interactive fiction #luxecompanion #ai generated #Story #interactive story #rpg #Fetish #gay

croisants

My Infinite Worlds Index (Update May 6rd)

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EVERY FACE IS A DOOR.

my complete Infinite Worlds index.

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I've always been drawn to RPGs where I control the decisions — but most games give you two or three choices and call it freedom.

oh, and every turn comes with an AI-generated illustration. some of my worlds also let you pick your language at the start — a pop-up will ask before the story begins.

If you don't have an account yet: new users get 1,200 free credits + 2–3 free turns every day just for signing up. Enough to explore before you commit to anything.

Everything below is mine. Pick a door.

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[ THE FLAGSHIP · shapeshifter · mechanics-heavy ]

LuxeCompanion: Your Fetish Is Safe With Us (Client POV)

↳ infiniteworlds.app/shared/3osAJL

What if the most exclusive service in the city could deliver every fantasy you've ever wanted — perfectly, without judgment — and your companion somehow already knew exactly what you needed before you said a word? tags: shapeshifter · fetish · mystery · NSFW · straight/gay/bi

croisants

Updated as May 6th

Play with any language — French, Spanish, Russian, Chinese, Indonesian, Portuguese, or any other, your choice & Use CGI Cinematic Illustration at the story

LuxeCompanion: The Perfect Date Charade — Shapeshift Protocol

LuxeCompanion: Your Fetish Is Safe With Us

(Not) Coach Henderson: Behind His Eyes

Fraternity Rewrite Reality

Master Devin: The Puppet Brother's Master

My Shapeshifter Roommate, My Command

Please DM me if you have any feedback. If you enjoy any of my worlds, a like or reblog goes a long way 🤍

#infinite worlds #interactive fiction #male shapeshift #shapeshifter #male shapeshifter #male transformation #power fantasy #rpg #storytelling #interactive story #story #fiction #stories #ai generated #language #fetish

croisants

My Infinite Worlds Index (Update May 3rd)

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EVERY FACE IS A DOOR.

my complete Infinite Worlds index.

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I've always been drawn to RPGs where I control the decisions — but most games give you two or three choices and call it freedom.

Infinite Worlds (infiniteworlds.app) is an AI-driven interactive fiction platform where the story goes wherever you push it. No fixed branches. No predetermined endings. No ceiling on what's possible.

If you don't have an account yet: new users get 1,200 free credits + 2–3 free turns every day just for signing up. Enough to explore before you commit to anything.

Everything below is mine. Pick a door.

croisants

Index Update as May 3rd

Hey all...

Here some update at index:

New IW stories: - Adult Life Series: My Breastfeeding Wife - LuxeCompanion: Your Fetish is Save with Us - The Great Shift: The Body You (Never) Had

Efficiency cost, make cost per turn cheaper: - LuxeCompanion: The Perfect Date Charade - LuxeCompanion: Your Fetish is Save with Us

Follow me for new update or DM me

#infinite worlds #male shapeshift #interactive fiction #shapeshifter #male shapeshifter #male body swap #male transformation #body swap #villains #dark comedy #power fantasy #transformation #rpg #roleplay #storytelling #interactive story #story #fiction #stories

LuxeCompanion : The Perfect Date Charade - Aditya Walkthrough Part 2

UPDATE: I just update the post to avoid banned by moderator and remove explicit content. If you wanna see it please DM me.

Hey everyone....

Thank you so much for your support on this project.

For you who just came here, I build interactive stories at infiniteworld.app , where you shape the story through your choices. I have several story here if you wanna try. If you don't have an account yet: new users get 1,200 free credits + 2–3 free turns every day just for signing up. https://www.tumblr.com/croisants/813602654893785088/my-infinite-worlds-index?source=share

For LuxeCompanion: The Perfect Date Charade — Shapeshift Protocol , I've made several updates for better story experience. Here's the update:

Now you choose upfront which client gender you'll accept on assigment and who you'll gonna be.

You can choose one or more personas. Keep scrolling to find your perfect persona

You also can choise your first assignment. Now you have more control how the story goes. If you have another idea what the first assigment should be you can comment here or DM me:

I've also added new Action Optionsto make choises more organize and engaging. But you can still type whatever you want to do in the story:

Ready to have your own experience as shapeshifter? Click here:

**Accepted to Columbia.** **Too Broke to Go.** **So I Started Renting Myself.** LuxeCompanion is an elite dating service. Clients think the

Click here for previous turn: Turn 1-15 Summary: Aditya Vermeer is a 19-year-old Dutch-Indonesian shapeshifter from Queens who secretly runs LuxeCompanion, an exclusive escort platform where every companion is actually him in a different body, all to raise $150,000 for Columbia tuition without his parents knowing . His client Marcus (username: NightOwl_BK) — a wealthy, polished hedge fund type — booked persona Richard Vance (6'4", blonde, athletic) for an $8,000 overnight arrangement at his Brooklyn Heights penthouse with explicit instructions to submit, but Aditya flipped the dynamic entirely:

-- Turn 16 --

Action

DEEPEN IT: Close distance and initiate physical contact—take control of the dynamic instead of following

Outcome

You don't move toward the bedroom.

Instead you close the distance between you in two steps. Marcus's eyes widen slightly—the first crack in his controlled exterior—as you invade the space he'd carefully maintained. His hand is still raised from gesturing toward the bedroom when you catch his wrist. Not rough. Just firm enough that he feels the difference in strength.

"No," you say. Your voice comes out lower than his, rougher, completely certain.

His breath catches. You can feel his pulse hammering against your thumb. For a moment he just stares up at you, and you watch his brain trying to recalibrate what's happening. He opened the door expecting a transaction he could direct. Instead he's looking up at six-four of muscle that just said no to his money.

Surface Read: Shock threading through arousal—his control disrupted, but not in a way that makes him want to leave. Underneath the panic there's something else. Relief. Like he's been waiting for someone to take this away from him.

His free hand comes up—whether to push you back or pull you closer, he seems uncertain himself. You catch that wrist too. Both of his hands now held in yours, pinned gently but immovably at his sides. His cashmere sweater rises and falls with quick breaths.

"Richard—" His voice has lost its clipped precision. "I paid—"

"Eight thousand dollars," you finish. "For overnight. No small talk. You didn't pay to give orders."

You release one wrist, bring your hand up to cup the side of his face. His skin is warm, faintly stubbled along the jaw despite expensive grooming. He freezes completely under your palm, every muscle tense.

"You want someone who'll do what you say, hire someone else." Your thumb brushes across his cheekbone. "You hired me."

The tension in his body shifts. Not relaxing—transforming. You feel the exact moment his resistance converts into something else entirely. His eyes close. His head tilts fractionally into your touch.

"Bedroom," you say quietly. Not a question. "Now."

When his eyes open again, they're different. Darker. The careful control he walked to the door with has been completely stripped away. He nods once, and you can see his throat work as he swallows.

You step back, releasing him. He stands there for a breath, steadying himself, then turns and walks toward the bedroom. His shoulders are less square now. His movements less certain.

You follow three steps behind, watching how he moves when he's not in control anymore.

#male shapeshifter #male transformation #infinite worlds #male shapeshift #hot male #shapeshifter #interactive fiction #luxecompanion #male bodybuilder #infiniteworldsapp #infiniteworlds #infiniteworldswalkthrough #interactive story #story #erotica #gay

menofsteel

croisants

This pic begging for a story. Any idea?

croisants

The Great Shift: Kevin's New Skin

Then came The Great Shift.

---

Kevin’s eyes snapped open.

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

“No… no way…” The voice that came out was deep, gravelly, and stupidly sexy. Derek’s voice.

Kevin’s nerd brain short-circuited.

He was in Derek.

“Fuck… I’m him,” Kevin whispered in that deep baritone, voice cracking with lust. “I’m Derek fucking Callahan.”

A wicked grin spread across Derek’s handsome face.

Kevin had spent years jerking off to this exact body. Now he was the body. And he had full control.

“Oh my god,” Kevin laughed—deep, rich, and dripping with lust. “I’m never going back. Even if they figure out how to reverse this, I’m staying right here.”

Somewhere across the city, the real Derek Callahan was probably waking up in Kevin’s scrawny, pale body, screaming at a monitor in nothing but old boxers.

Or else.

Kevin felt zero sympathy and didn't give a shit

He gave his reflection one last hungry look, palming the heavy weight between his legs through the briefs.

He flexed one last time, admiring the way every muscle danced under the lights, then strode out of the gym area with a confident swagger that Kevin had never possessed in his old life.

The Great Shift had taken half the world’s population and thrown them into new skins.

For Kevin, it had finally given him the body he’d always deserved to worship.

And he was going to enjoy every single, throbbing, muscle-packed second of it.

Try live as Kevin (Dax) at Infinite Worlds by click here

In an instant, half of humanity woke up in someone else's body. You're one of them — and by some cosmic joke, you've landed in the body of s

#male transformation #hot male #male bodybuilder #male body swap #body swap

menofsteel

croisants

This pic begging for a story. Any idea?

LuxeCompanion: Your Fetish Is Safe With Us

🖤 INTRODUCING: LuxeCompanion: Your Fetish Is Safe With Us

An interactive fiction world for adults — now live on Infinite Worlds.

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WHAT IS THIS?

LuxeCompanion is an AI-powered interactive fiction experience. You play a wealthy, powerful professional with secret desiresyou've never been able to explore safely. You hire from anexclusive, invitation-only companion service — and discover that every companion you've ever booked is the same impossibleperson wearing a different face.

A shapeshifter. Running the world's most discreet business.

And slowly, dangerously, getting attached.

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HOW IT WORKS

When you start, you build your experience from scratch:

✦ Choose your character — athlete, politician, CEO, actor, or create your own

✦ Define your ideal companion — appearance, personality, build, aesthetic (100+ options)

✦ Choose your scenarios — 150+ options from slow burn romance to BDSM, roleplay, transformation, and more

✦ Play straight, gay, or bisexual — your companion adapts completely

The AI then generates a fully personalized story based on exactly what you asked for. Every encounter feels unique.

Every companion feels real.

Until the cracks start showing.

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CURRENT STORIES

Five playthroughs are available to read. Vote for which should I continued:

[Click on the title to get PDF's stories, some story have d*ck pic 😈]

🏉Story 1 — Connor Bryce × Captain Marcus Vitale

Companion: Marcus Vitale, 42, 6'7", former Italian Special Forces, private security consultant

Scenario: Height difference — soldier-like authority, commanding but gentle

Connor is the biggest man on his team — and for the first time in his adult life, he has to tilt his head up to meet someone's eyes. All 10 turns are pure SURRENDER: from trembling hands at the door, to collapsing against Marcus's chest, to being pinned flat on the mattress and genuinely unable to move. Not a single moment of suspicion. Connor is too deep in the sensation to notice anything off.

🏛️ Story 2 — Richard Caldwell × Captain Alessandro Greco

File: Richard Caldwell Turns 1-11

Companion: Alessandro Greco, 38, 6'7", former Italian SF (Col Moschin / 9th Parachute Assault Regiment), private security consultant

Scenario: Total surrender of control — protection, not domination

A Republican congressman who built his career on "family values" wants to feel small and safe. Alessandro blindfolds him, undresses him slowly, and dismantles thirty years of armor piece by piece. Turn 10 is the pivot: Richard starts to PROBE — "How do you know exactly what I need without me saying it?" — and recognizes Alessandro's deflection technique because he's used the exact same one in congressional hearings. He chooses to accept the explanation anyway. For now.

⚽ Story 3 — James Castellano × Captain Marcus Thorne

File: James Castellano Turns 1-9

Companion: Marcus Thorne, 6'7", former Marine Corps officer, arriving in full dress uniform

Scenario: Military homecoming fantasy — the soldier returning after 6 months deployed

The only story with full immersive roleplay from the first moment. Marcus arrives in uniform, immediately in character as the lover who just landed from Okinawa. Turn 6 is the most unsettling beat: James asks "What was deployment really like?" — and Marcus gives an answer that feels too raw, too real, about the fear of coming home to someone who no longer knows you. The line between fantasy and something genuine starts to blur.

⚽ Story 4 — James Castellano × Rafael Dominguez

File: James Castellano Turns 1-14

Companion: Rafael Dominguez, 42, 6'6", former basketball coach

Scenario: Mentorship/approval dynamic — James wants to feel guided, not dominated

The most advanced story in the mystery arc. Rafael glances at a childhood photo on the mantle and immediately knows something he shouldn't. Turn 9: Rafael pulls a bottle of lube from James's jacket pocket — the exact brand James once secretly glimpsed in his father's nightstand drawer at sixteen. There is no way he could have known that. Turn 13: Rafael cancels the rest of his evening's bookings to stay with James. Turn 14: James probes directly about "all the years" — and Rafael deflects with increasing desperation.

⚽ Story 4 — James Castellano × Mateo Reyes

File: James Castellano Turns 1-13

Companion: Mateo Reyes, 43, 6'6", former firefighter, salt-and-pepper beard, speaks three languages

Scenario: Age gap + degradation/humiliation dynamic — James wants someone to see through the performance

James arrives performing — slipping on his public persona at the door. Mateo sees through it immediately. The session escalates into explicit degradation and humiliation. Then at Turn 11, right in the middle of the scene, Mateo stops completely and says "You're not nothing." — he breaks from the degradation script and speaks with a tenderness that was never in the booking. Neither of them knows what to do with that.

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VOTE BELLOW or send an ask — which story

continues first?

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Want to play it yourself?

🔗 https://infiniteworlds.app/shared/3osAJL

Play on Infinite Worlds — free to play, credits needed for longer sessions

Want to help continue these stories faster?

☕ Ko-fi: https://ko-fi.com/theknightcroissant

Each contribution helps fund credits to keep the stories running.

Full index my Infinite Worlds stories click here

https://www.tumblr.com/croisants/813602654893785088/my-infinite-worlds-index?source=share

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Which stories should we continued?

🏉 Story 1 — Connor Bryce × Captain Marcus Vitale

🏛️ Story 2 — Richard Caldwell × Captain Alessandro Greco

⚽ Story 3 — James Castellano × Captain Marcus Thorne

⚽ Story 4 — James Castellano × Rafael Dominguez

⚽ Story 5 — James Castellano × Mateo Reyes

Voting ended onMay 6

New Update on LuxeCompanion : The Perfect Date Charade - Aditya Walkthrough Part 1

Hey everyone....

Thank you so much for your support on this project.

For LuxeCompanion: The Perfect Date Charade — Shapeshift Protocol , I've made several updates for better story experience. Here's the update:

Now you choose upfront which client gender you'll accept on assigment and who you'll gonna be.

You can choose one or more personas. Keep scrolling to find your perfect persona

You also can choise your first assignment. Now you have more control how the story goes. If you have another idea what the first assigment should be you can comment here or DM me:

I've also added new Action Optionsto make choises more organize and engaging. But you can still type whatever you want to do in the story:

Ready to have your own experience as shapeshifter? Click here:

**Accepted to Columbia.** **Too Broke to Go.** **So I Started Renting Myself.** LuxeCompanion is an elite dating service. Clients think the

Here's my recent walkthrough, I hope you like it

== LuxeCompanion: The Perfect Date Charade — Shapeshift Protocol (NSFW version) ==

-- Character --

You can start as anyone, every character have their own unique. If you have another idea, please DM me. Here I play as Aditya Vermer, Indo-Dutch shapeshifter boy

Name

Aditya Vermeer

Background

Aditya Vermeer is a 19-year-old mixed-heritage man—Dutch father and Indonesian mother—with a composed, striking appearance that makes him hard to categorize at first glance. He inherited predominantly European features from his father: a long, narrow face with high cheekbones, a straight narrow nose, and a defined jawline. His skin is light fair with warm undertones that hint at his Indonesian heritage. Deep-set brown-blue eyes sit beneath straight, well-groomed brows, and his dark brown hair is always neatly styled. He keeps himself clean-shaven, projecting an image that's sharp and polished without being rugged. His build is lean and tall, and he moves with deliberate economy—nothing wasted, nothing careless.

Aditya dresses in understated, well-maintained clothing: crisp button-downs, dark jeans or chinos, minimalist sneakers or boots. Everything fits properly. Everything looks intentional. He learned early that presentation matters—that being overlooked or underestimated could be avoided with the right amount of control over how others perceive you.

His parents, Sinta and Joost Vermeer, run a small Indonesian restaurant in Queens called Warung Sinta. It's been their life's work for fifteen years, and Aditya grew up in its kitchen, learning to navigate two cultures that don't always speak the same language—literally or figuratively. His mother is warm but pragmatic, his father supportive but reserved. They worked brutal hours to keep the business afloat and give Aditya opportunities they never had. He absorbed their work ethic and their quiet anxiety about money, status, and belonging.

Aditya is methodical and observant. He excels at reading social dynamics and assessing risk before acting, which makes him cautious in ways that can look like aloofness. He's not naturally warm or effusive—his charm is subtle, built on attentiveness and making people feel genuinely seen rather than dazzled. He listens more than he speaks, and when he does speak, it's measured. This restraint makes people trust him, even if they don't always feel they know him.

He's ambitious in a quiet, determined way. Columbia isn't just about education—it's about proving he can succeed in spaces that weren't built for people like him. He's acutely aware of being in-between: not fully Dutch, not fully Indonesian, not wealthy, not poor. That liminal identity makes him adaptable, but it also leaves him wondering where he actually fits.

Aditya's risk assessment is sharp, but his emotional intelligence—while present—is more analytical than instinctive. He understands people by studying them, not by naturally flowing with their moods. His improvisational skills are decent but not exceptional; he prefers having a plan. His deception is competent when necessary, though he dislikes lying to people he respects. His charm works best in one-on-one settings where his quiet attentiveness can shine.

-- Story Background --

April 2025.

The Columbia acceptance letter is still folded in your drawer, creased along the same line you pressed into it the night it arrived. The deadline didn’t move. The numbers didn’t change. Hope, unfortunately, did.

Downstairs, oil snaps in a pan. A burner clicks before catching. Your parents’ restaurant survives on repetition—same menu, same margins, same narrow survival. They tell customers you’re starting college in the fall. They say it casually, like it’s already true.

You don’t correct them.

It started at thirteen — no warning, no logic. You woke up one morning and your hands weren't yours. Not wrong, exactly. Just different. You told no one. There was no one to tell who would have understood. It took two years to stop being afraid of mirrors and another year to realize the fear had simply become something else: fluency.

You’ve known about your ability long enough that it no longer feels miraculous. It feels anatomical. Height shifts under intention. Muscle redistributes. Bone structure reshapes beneath your palms. Fabric forms along your skin, thread by thread.

You can become anyone.

You just can’t afford to be caught.

You didn’t plan to use it like this. There were other ways to survive—temporary contracts, distant cities, vanishing into someone else’s paperwork. But dating is structured. Time-bound. Transactional. Intimate without permanence.

LuxeCompanion began as a contingency.

An experiment.

Something you could dismantle if it failed.

It launches in April 2025.

Invitation-only. Curated. Discreet.

Upstairs, your dashboard waits in sterile silence. No clients yet. Just infrastructure. Empty persona files. A clock that doesn’t pause.

There are rules.

You never appear as yourself. Each persona remains internally consistent. Stories never overlap. Clients never meet. The admin is distant. The admin never dates.

The admin is you.

If this works, August arrives quietly.

If it fails, Columbia becomes a sentence you say in past tense.

There’s still a window.

And for now, that’s enough.

-- Turn 1 --

Outcome

The notification pulses in the corner of your screen—a clean white rectangle against the dashboard's minimal interface. You click it.

The inquiry loads.

No profile photo. The username is V_Castellanos. The timestamp shows 11:43 PM—four minutes ago. The message is terse:

"Need escort for business meeting. Thursday evening. Brooklyn industrial district. Client may become aggressive. Require physical presence that discourages confrontation. 6'3" minimum. Professional demeanor essential. Two hours. $4,500."

Below that, a single line in smaller text: "Discretion is not optional. Confirm availability within 24 hours or inquiry expires."

You lean back in your desk chair. It creaks—the same sound it's made since you were fourteen. Downstairs, a pot lid clatters. Your father's voice, muffled through the floor, calls something to your mother in Dutch. She answers in Indonesian. The rhythm of closing—wiping counters, storing containers, the soft thud of the walk-in fridge sealing shut.

Your laptop screen illuminates your face in the dark room. The inquiry sits there, waiting. Not a date. Not dinner or a gala or someone's arm candy for the evening. An escort in the older, blunter sense—someone whose physical presence alone changes the equation in a room.

You have personas in the catalog. Some would fit. Others wouldn't. But none of them have been worn yet. None of them have walked into a real situation with real stakes.

$4,500 would cover two months of your parents' commercial rent. It would cover the deposit for Columbia housing. It would mean you could stop calculating whether taking the subway costs too much.

Your phone buzzes. A text from your mother: "Still awake? Don't stay up too late."

You type back: "Almost done. Good night."

The inquiry doesn't move. V_Castellanos doesn't know you're nineteen. Doesn't know you've never done this before. Doesn't know that every persona in your catalog has been tested exactly once—in your bedroom mirror, watching yourself become someone else.

Thursday is two days away.

The cursor blinks in the reply field, waiting for you to commit.

Your objective for this adventure is: Accumulate $150,000 through LuxeCompanion and related arrangements, secure the freedom to choose your future—at Columbia or beyond—and protect the secret that every companion is you.

-- Turn 2 --

Action

WEAR THE MASK: Choose which persona fits a 6'3\"+ hostile environment escort, prepare the identity, and accept the booking.

Offer Maarten Van Dijk

Outcome

You scroll through your persona catalog. Alessandro Vitale—too refined. Graham Cole—wrong energy. Bastien Morel at 6'6" would work, but the client said minimum, not optimal. Then there's Maarten.

7'2". Enormous dense muscular build. Dutch. The kind of physical presence that doesn't need to threaten—it just is.

You click through to Maarten's profile. The backstory you built for him is clean: former security consultant, freelance corporate protection, expensive because he's worth it. Professional. Cold. The kind of person who makes a room feel smaller just by entering it.

You open the reply field and type:

"Booking confirmed. Maarten van Dijk available Thursday evening. Professional security background. Meets physical requirements. Confirmation of location and timing required to proceed."

You pause, then add: "Payment structure: 50% advance via app, remainder upon completion. Nondisclosure binding both parties."

Your finger hovers over send. This isn't theoretical anymore. Thursday is real. The money is real. The risk is real.

You hit send.

The message shows as delivered. Then, almost immediately, the three dots appear. V_Castellanos is typing.

The response comes through:

"Accepted. Location: Red Hook Marine Terminal, Building 7. Meeting at 8 PM. Client and contractor present. Estimated duration 90 minutes, may extend to two hours. Advance payment processing now."

Another message follows:

"Maarten should position near me, not between. Presence sufficient—intervention only if contractor becomes physically aggressive. Discrete recording device acceptable if he prefers documentation."

A third:

"Professional dress. No visible weapons. This is business intimidation, not personal security."

Your phone buzzes. The LuxeCompanion app shows: Payment received: $2,250.

Your laptop refreshes. The booking shifts from inquiry to confirmed. Thursday, April 3rd, 8:00 PM. Red Hook Marine Terminal. Two hours. Maarten van Dijk.

$4,500 minus the platform fee you built in.

Downstairs, the restaurant has gone quiet. Your parents have finished closing. You hear the stairs creak—your mother, probably, heading up to bed.

Your door is closed. Your screen glows in the dark.

You have two days to prepare. Two days before you walk into an industrial building in Brooklyn as someone seven feet tall who doesn't exist.

-- Turn 3 --

Action

FAST FORWARD: Skip to Thursday evening—preparation complete, arrive at Red Hook Marine Terminal as Maarten van Dijk

Outcome

Thursday arrives with rain.

You lock your bedroom door at 6:47 PM. Your parents think you're working a catering shift in Manhattan—black-tie event, good money, home late. Your mother packed you dinner in a container. Your father reminded you to text when you're on your way back.

You strip down to nothing and stand in front of the mirror.

The shift begins.

Height first. Your spine elongates vertebra by vertebra, shoulders rising as your perspective climbs. The ceiling approaches. Your center of gravity recalibrates. Muscle mass floods through your frame—chest broadening, shoulders thickening, arms gaining density that feels architectural in its solidity. Your face restructures: jawline extending, cheekbones sharpening, nose narrowing. Hair lightens from dark brown to ash-blonde, cropped short and textured. Eyes shift from brown-blue to sharp grey-blue, colder, more distant.

Clothing forms along your skin. Black wool trousers, perfectly tailored. A charcoal button-down, sleeves rolled to the forearms. A black blazer that fits your enormous frame without strain. Leather boots, polished, heavy.

The process takes thirty-eight seconds.

I'm looking down at the doorknob now. The mirror sits lower. My hands are massive—knuckles like river stones, fingers thick enough to palm a basketball one-handed. My voice sits deeper in my chest, resonant and cold. I don't feel like Aditya wearing a costume. I feel like Maarten tolerating the memory of being smaller.

You leave through the back stairwell, avoiding the restaurant. The subway takes forty minutes. You arrive at Red Hook Marine Terminal at 7:43 PM.

The area is industrial—shipping containers stacked in geometric rows, cranes dark against the rain, security lighting casting everything in sodium yellow. Building 7 is a converted warehouse, red brick with steel-frame windows. A black Mercedes is parked near the entrance.

A woman steps out. Short—maybe five-foot-two—in a tailored grey suit and heels that add two inches she doesn't have. Dark hair pulled back tight. She looks up at you, visibly startled by the scale, then exhales.

"Maarten?" Her voice is steady, but you catch the micro-adjustment in her posture—shoulders back, chin up, compensating.

"Yes."

"Vanessa Castellanos." She extends a hand. You shake it carefully. Her grip is firm, deliberate. "Thank you for coming early. I wanted to brief you before Ray arrives. He's—" She pauses, choosing words. "He has a habit of standing too close. Talking over me. Using his height to dominate conversations. I need you positioned near me, but not protective. Professional. Like you're part of my team."

"Understood."

"If he touches me or blocks my path, step in. Otherwise, just… exist. Be the reason he thinks twice."

She checks her watch. 7:51 PM.

"He'll be here in ten minutes."

-- Turn 4 --

Action

STAY IN CHARACTER: Remain silent and imposing, positioning yourself as Vanessa directs when Ray arrives

Outcome

You nod once. Position yourself slightly behind and to Vanessa's right—close enough to be present, far enough to not crowd her. You adjust your stance: feet shoulder-width, hands loose at your sides, weight balanced. The rain continues its steady percussion against the pavement.

Vanessa checks her phone, then the entrance. Her jaw tightens. She's rehearsing something in her head—you can see it in the micro-movements of her lips.

At 8:03, headlights sweep across the lot. A white pickup truck parks aggressively close to the Mercedes. The driver's door opens.

Ray Kowalski steps out. Six-one, broad through the shoulders, wearing a canvas work jacket and jeans stained with concrete dust. Late forties, greying brown hair cropped short, a face that's spent decades outdoors. He walks with the swagger of someone used to being the biggest person in the room.

Then he sees you.

His stride falters. Just for a second. His eyes travel up—and up. You watch his expression shift through confusion, recalibration, and something that looks uncomfortably close to wariness. He stops three feet farther away from Vanessa than he probably planned to.

"Vanessa." His voice is rough, clipped. He doesn't extend a hand. His eyes keep drifting back to you, measuring.

"Ray. Thank you for meeting." Vanessa's voice is steady now. She gestures toward the building entrance. "Shall we?"

Ray doesn't move immediately. He's staring at you—not hostile, exactly, but testing. "You bringing security to a contract negotiation now?"

"I'm bringing my associate," Vanessa says coolly. "This is Maarten van Dijk. He's part of my team."

You meet Ray's gaze. You don't blink. You don't speak. You simply exist—an enormous, immovable presence in charcoal and black.

Ray breaks eye contact first. He shifts his weight, rolls his shoulders like he's loosening up for something, then mutters, "Fine. Let's get this done."

Vanessa moves toward the entrance. Ray follows, but he keeps his distance now—walking beside her rather than crowding. You fall into step behind them both, close enough that your presence fills the space.

The building's interior smells like rust and old wood. Overhead fluorescents flicker. Vanessa leads you to a second-floor office—basic furniture, blueprints spread across a table, a coffeemaker in the corner.

Ray takes the chair farthest from the door. Vanessa sits across from him. You remain standing, positioned near Vanessa's right shoulder, hands clasped loosely in front of you.

Ray glances up at you again, then back to Vanessa. "So. Let's talk numbers."

-- Turn 5 --

Action

STAY IN CHARACTER: Remain silent throughout the negotiation, letting your presence do the work

Outcome

Ray spreads the blueprints across the table with more force than necessary. "So here's the reality. Original estimate was two-twenty. Material costs went up. Labor's tight. I'm looking at two-sixty minimum, probably closer to two-seventy-five."

Vanessa doesn't flinch. "The contract specified material cost escalation caps at eight percent. You're asking for twenty-five."

"Market conditions—"

"Market conditions were factored into the original bid." Her voice is steady, controlled. She leans forward slightly. "You signed off on the specs. Nothing in the scope changed."

Ray shifts in his chair. His eyes flick up to you—brief, involuntary—then back to Vanessa. You haven't moved. Haven't spoken. You simply stand there, hands loosely clasped, grey-blue eyes fixed somewhere in the middle distance. Present. Enormous. Immovable.

"Look," Ray says, and his tone has shifted. Less aggressive. More negotiating. "I'm not trying to screw you over here. But I got crews to pay. Equipment rental. Insurance went up—"

"Show me the insurance documentation."

Ray hesitates. "I don't have it with me."

"Then we're discussing hypotheticals." Vanessa slides a folder across the table. "Here's what I have. Original bid. Signed contract. Material supplier quotes from last month showing prices within projected range. If your costs genuinely increased beyond the cap, I need documentation. Otherwise, we're at two-twenty."

Ray picks up the folder. Flips through it. His jaw works like he's chewing something bitter. He glances up at you again—longer this time, like he's testing whether you're real or whether the scale of you will somehow diminish if he looks hard enough.

It doesn't.

You meet his gaze with absolute neutrality. No hostility. No threat. Just presence. He looks away first, shoulders tightening.

"Two-forty," he says finally. "That's as low as I can go."

Vanessa considers. "Two-thirty. And you absorb the first week's delay penalties since you're the one who pushed this meeting back three times."

Ray's fingers drum against the table. His eyes dart toward you once more—brief, almost reflexive—and whatever calculation he's running comes up short. "Fine. Two-thirty. But I want the penalty clause revised for weather delays."

"Reasonable weather delays, documented by third-party meteorological reports."

"Agreed."

Vanessa extends her hand. Ray shakes it. His grip is firm, but his posture has changed—less sprawling, more contained. He gathers the blueprints, stuffs them into a tube, and stands.

"I'll send over the revised contract tomorrow," Vanessa says.

Ray nods. Pauses. Looks at you one last time. "You, uh… you do a lot of these kinds of meetings?"

You don't answer. You simply hold his gaze, utterly still.

Ray clears his throat. "Right. Well. See you next week, Vanessa."

He leaves quickly. His footsteps echo down the stairwell, then fade. The building settles into silence.

Vanessa exhales—long, shaky, relieved. She turns to you. "That was… I've never seen him back down like that. Ever." She laughs, slightly disbelieving. "You didn't say a single word."

"I didn't need to."

She looks at you—really looks at you—and something shifts in her expression. Gratitude, yes. But also a kind of recalibration, like she's realizing exactly what she hired. "No. You really didn't."

-- Turn 6 --

Action

STAY IN CHARACTER: Maintain Maarten's presence and escort Vanessa to her car

Outcome

Vanessa gathers her briefcase and folder, movements quick with residual adrenaline. You follow her down the stairwell—your footsteps heavier, slower, a bass rhythm beneath her sharper clicks. The fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows that make the narrow space feel even smaller with you in it.

Outside, the rain has softened to mist. Sodium lights turn the parking lot into something noir and industrial. Vanessa stops beside her Mercedes, unlocks it, then turns to face you. She has to tilt her head back significantly.

"I've been dealing with Ray for eight months," she says quietly. "Every meeting, he'd stand too close. Interrupt me. Treat my contracts like suggestions." She pauses, choosing words carefully. "Tonight he sat down and stayed there. He negotiated like I was someone worth negotiating with."

She reaches into her briefcase, pulls out an envelope. "The remainder, plus five hundred. You earned it."

You accept it with a slight nod. "Appreciated."

"I have another contractor meeting next month. Same situation—different asshole." She meets your eyes briefly, then looks away, recalibrating. "Would you be available?"

"I'll need to check my schedule."

"Please do." She opens her car door, pauses with one hand on the frame. "You know, I almost didn't book this. Thought it was excessive. Paranoid." A small, tired laugh. "Turns out sometimes paranoia is just pattern recognition."

She slides into the driver's seat. The door closes with a solid German thunk. The engine purrs to life. She gives you one last look through the window—half gratitude, half something else. Relief, maybe. Or the particular exhaustion that comes from finally not having to fight alone.

The Mercedes pulls away, red taillights disappearing into the mist.

You're alone in the industrial lot. Rain patters against shipping containers. Somewhere distant, a truck horn sounds. The envelope in your pocket holds twenty-seven hundred dollars in cash.

Your phone buzzes. The LuxeCompanion app: Booking completed. Client rating: 5 stars. Review: "Professional. Effective. Will book again."

The shift back will require privacy. There's a 24-hour diner three blocks south—bathroom lock, single occupancy. Or you could walk to the nearest subway station, find a maintenance corridor or empty platform corner. The industrial district is mostly deserted this time of night.

Maarten van Dijk completed his first job. Aditya Vermeer is still seven feet tall and twelve blocks from the nearest place it's safe to become himself again.

-- Turn 7 --

Action

CLOSE & MOVE: Walk to the 24-hour diner, shift back to Aditya in the bathroom, and head home to Queens

Outcome

You walk south through the industrial district. The streets are nearly empty—occasional cars hissing past on wet asphalt, distant container yard machinery humming low. The mist has thickened into light drizzle.

A man exits a warehouse loading dock ahead of you. Mid-thirties, work jacket, carrying a toolbox. He glances up, sees you approaching, and his entire body language shifts. He moves to the far edge of the sidewalk without seeming to decide to do it. His eyes drop. You pass within six feet of him and he doesn't look up again until you're well past.

The diner appears three blocks later—chrome exterior, neon sign reading STELLA'S 24HR, yellow light bleeding onto wet pavement. You push through the door. A bell chimes.

The space is half-full. Two truck drivers at the counter, a woman in scrubs picking at fries in a corner booth, an older man nursing coffee by the window. Every head turns when you enter.

The waitress behind the counter—fifties, bleached blonde, name tag reading DIANE—freezes mid-pour. Her eyes travel up your frame and her expression shifts through surprise into something more careful. "Evening," she says, voice slightly higher than it probably usually is. "Sit anywhere you like."

You don't sit. "Restroom?"

"Back left." She gestures with the coffee pot, movements smaller than necessary.

You move through the narrow aisle between booths. The woman in scrubs pulls her bag closer without looking at you directly. One of the truck drivers rotates slightly on his stool, tracking your movement peripherally, then turns back to his plate.

The bathroom is single-occupancy. You lock the door, check the deadbolt twice. Fluorescent light hums overhead. The mirror is spotted with age, but functional.

You strip off the blazer, unbutton the shirt. The shift begins.

Height collapses first—vertebrae compressing, perspective dropping. The ceiling rises away. Muscle mass dissolves, shoulders narrowing, chest flattening to leaner proportions. Your face restructures: jawline softening, cheekbones shifting, nose adjusting. Hair darkens from ash-blonde to brown, lengthening slightly. Eyes warm from grey-blue back to brown-blue. Skin tone shifts subtly warmer.

Clothing reforms: dark jeans, a simple grey henley, your usual minimalist jacket. Sneakers materialize, worn and comfortable.

Thirty-seven seconds.

The mirror shows someone I recognize now. Narrower shoulders. Human scale. My own voice sitting higher in my throat. The weight of Maarten's presence lifts like removing armor I didn't realize I was carrying.

You unlock the door, step back into the diner. Diane glances up, does a double-take. "Oh—I didn't see you come in."

You nod politely, push through the exit. The bell chimes again. Outside, the rain continues its quiet percussion. You're just another person now, walking toward the subway station three blocks east.

The envelope in your jacket pocket holds twenty-seven hundred dollars. Your phone shows two texts from your mother: "How's the event?" and "Let us know when you're coming home."

You text back: "Finishing up. Home by 10."

-- Turn 8 --

Action

CLOSE & MOVE: Take the subway home to Queens, stash the cash, and decompress as yourself

Outcome

The F train is nearly empty at this hour. You slide into a corner seat, backpack on your lap, and watch Brooklyn scroll past in sodium-lit fragments. A woman across the aisle scrolls through her phone. Two teenagers share earbuds at the far end. Nobody looks at you. Nobody notices you're carrying twenty-seven hundred dollars in cash.

The train sways. Your reflection ghosts across the dark window—narrow shoulders, familiar face, human proportions. You flex your fingers. They're yours again. Smaller. The memory of Maarten's massive hands still sits strange in your nervous system, like phantom limbs you've already shed.

You transfer at Jay Street. The platform smells like rain and metal. By the time you reach Queens, it's past nine-thirty.

Warung Sinta's windows are dark. The CLOSED sign faces the street. You use your key on the side entrance, move quietly through the narrow hallway that smells like yesterday's sambal and fried shallots. Upstairs, light bleeds under your parents' bedroom door. You hear the television—some Dutch news program your father watches to stay connected to a country he left twenty years ago.

Your room is exactly as you left it. Bed unmade. Laptop closed on the desk. The Columbia letter still folded in the drawer where hope goes to wait.

You lock the door. Pull the envelope from your jacket. Twenty-seven hundred-dollar bills, crisp and sequential. You count them twice. Then you kneel beside your bed, reach underneath, and remove the false bottom panel you installed when you were sixteen and paranoid about privacy. The compartment is small—just deep enough for documents, cash, things that need to stay hidden.

Four thousand nine hundred fifty dollars now. You slide the panel back into place, push the bed flush against the wall.

Your phone buzzes. Your mother: "You're home? Goodnight, sayang."

You text back: "Home safe. Goodnight."

You sit on the edge of your bed. The room is quiet. Downstairs, the restaurant sits empty—tables wiped clean, chairs stacked, register locked. Your parents are thirty feet away, believing their son spent the evening serving hors d'oeuvres to Manhattan executives.

You just spent two hours as a seven-foot-tall man who doesn't exist, standing in an industrial warehouse while a contractor renegotiated his ego.

And it worked.

Your hands are still yours. Your face is still yours. The mirror on your closet door shows Aditya Vermeer—nineteen, lean, unremarkable. But somewhere in your nervous system, Maarten's cold grey-blue stare still lingers, watching the world from a height you've already surrendered.

You lie back. Stare at the ceiling. The money is hidden. The client is satisfied. The secret is intact.

Columbia needs one hundred fifty thousand.

You have four thousand nine hundred fifty.

Outside your window, Queens hums its late-night rhythm—distant sirens, passing cars, the subway rumbling underground. The city that doesn't know what you are. The city that just paid you to be someone else.

Tomorrow, LuxeCompanion will still be running. Tomorrow, another inquiry might arrive.

-- Turn 9 --

Action

INDULGE: Spend time with family tomorrow morning—breakfast downstairs, help with restaurant prep, ground yourself in real identity

Outcome

You wake to the smell of fried garlic and the sound of your mother's voice carrying up through the floorboards—Indonesian, rapid, probably talking to one of the suppliers on the phone. The clock reads 7:18 AM.

You pull on jeans and a clean t-shirt. Your reflection in the closet mirror shows exactly who you're supposed to be: Aditya Vermeer, nineteen, son of restaurant owners, nothing remarkable. The memory of Maarten's seven-foot-two frame feels distant now, almost unreal.

Downstairs, the kitchen is already humid with steam. Your mother stands at the stove, stirring a pot of bumbu. She glances over when you enter. "You're up early. I thought you'd sleep in after last night."

"Couldn't sleep much." You pour yourself coffee from the pot your father always makes too strong. "Need help with anything?"

She gestures toward the cutting board. "Shallots. We're doing rendang today and I'm behind."

You slide onto the stool and start peeling. The rhythm is automatic—something you've done since you were tall enough to reach the counter. Your mother hums something under her breath, adjusting the heat.

"How was the event?" she asks.

"Fine. Boring, mostly. Stood around holding trays."

"They pay you enough for boring?"

"Enough."

She doesn't press. Your father comes in from the dining room, carrying a broken chair leg. He nods at you, sets the leg on the table, examines it. "Morning."

"Morning, Pap."

He watches you dice shallots for a moment. "You're getting faster."

"Practice."

Your mother ladles a spoonful of bumbu, tastes it, adds more palm sugar. "Aditya, after this, can you check the freezer inventory? I think we're low on tempeh again."

"Sure."

The three of you work in comfortable silence for a while. Your father fixes the chair. Your mother moves between pots. You finish the shallots and move on to slicing beef. The restaurant won't open until eleven, but prep starts hours before. This is the part tourists never see—the unglamorous labor that makes everything else possible.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket. You ignore it.

"Columbia sent you anything yet?" your father asks suddenly.

You pause mid-slice. "About what?"

"Orientation. Housing. That sort of thing."

"Not yet. Still early."

He nods slowly. Your mother glances at you, then back at her pot. Neither of them asks about money directly. They assume you're handling it. They assume the catering gigs are enough.

You keep slicing.

The beef is cold and slick under your palms. Your hands are smaller than they were last night. Your shoulders narrower. Your voice higher. You are exactly yourself, doing exactly what you've always done, in the kitchen where you grew up.

And twenty-seven hundred dollars is hidden under your bed, earned by being someone who doesn't exist.

-- Turn 10 --

Action

FAST FORWARD: Skip to evening - check LuxeCompanion dashboard for new client inquiries

Outcome

The day passes in its familiar rhythm. You help with lunch prep, serve tables during the afternoon rush, wash dishes while your mother handles the register. By the time you escape upstairs, it's past eight o'clock and your shoulders ache from repetitive motion.

Your laptop sits exactly where you left it. You lock the door, pull the blinds, and open LuxeCompanion's admin portal. The interface loads—clean, minimal, encrypted. Three new inquiries wait in the queue.

The first is from someone using the handle PressureValve: "Need company for investor dinner Monday night. Midtown steakhouse. Must be comfortable discussing venture capital without sounding like they're reading a script. $3,500."

The second is shorter, more direct. Username NightOwl_BK: "Looking for overnight arrangement this Saturday. Discreet, no questions. Brooklyn Heights penthouse. $8,000. Male, 6'2" minimum, athletic. No small talk required."

The third message is longer, more carefully composed. Meridian_Collector: "I'm hosting a private art viewing Sunday evening at my gallery in Chelsea. I need someone who can hold an intelligent conversation about contemporary sculpture and won't look uncomfortable in formal wear. This is a professional event with collectors and critics present. Four hours, $4,000. Prefer European background if possible—I find the accent helps with certain clients."

You lean back in your chair. Three bookings. Potentially $15,500 if you accept all of them. That would bring you to just over twenty thousand dollars total.

Your phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number: "Saw your platform through a referral. Interested in discussing a longer-term arrangement. Professional security detail, not romantic. Willing to negotiate terms. Please respond if available."

Then another notification—a calendar reminder you set weeks ago. Tomorrow afternoon, there's a community event at the gym three blocks from the restaurant. Your mother asked you to drop off flyers advertising Warung Sinta's catering services. You'd forgotten entirely.

Downstairs, you hear your father locking up for the night. The restaurant goes quiet. Your laptop screen glows in the darkened room, cursor blinking in the message field.

Outside your window, Queens settles into its Friday night patterns—voices from the street, music from passing cars, the distant rumble of the N train.

-- Turn 11 --

Action

MANAGE PERSONA: Review existing personas and decide which fits each inquiry—or create new persona if needed

Outcome

You pull up the persona database alongside the inquiry queue. The laptop screen splits into two windows—client needs on the left, your constructed identities on the right.

First inquiry: PressureValve. Investor dinner. Needs someone who can talk venture capital without sounding coached. You scroll through the list. Jonas Finch could work—slim, intellectual, glasses, the thoughtful-startup-founder aesthetic that VCs seem to trust instinctively. But there's a risk he reads too young, too inexperienced. Alessandro Vitale might be better. Greek-Italian, naturally magnetic, old enough to have credibility but young enough to seem current. You flag Alessandro as primary option.

Second inquiry: NightOwl_BK. Overnight, Brooklyn Heights, eight thousand dollars. Male, athletic, six-two minimum, no small talk required. That phrasing—no small talk required—tells you everything. This isn't about conversation. It's about presence, maybe sex, definitely discretion. Richard Vance fits the physical specs: six-four, massive, controlled intimidation. But he might be too much. You scroll back up. Callum Wright—six feet, lean athletic, approachable but grounded. Or Bastien Morel if they want someone who fills a room. You bookmark both, lean toward Bastien. The rugby build and French accent add layers that justify the price point.

Third inquiry: Meridian_Collector. Art viewing, Chelsea gallery, formal event with collectors and critics. Intelligent conversation about contemporary sculpture, European background preferred. This one's easy. Bastien Morel again—French, can hold his own in cultural spaces, physically impressive enough to be memorable without overwhelming the art. You cross-reference: if you use Bastien for the overnight Saturday, you can't use him Sunday. The bookings are too close. You'd risk operational bleed.

You lean back, run the numbers. If you accept all three and split them properly: Alessandro for Monday's investor dinner, Richard Vance for Saturday overnight, Bastien for Sunday gallery event. Total: fifteen thousand five hundred dollars. That brings your accumulated funds to just over twenty thousand.

Then there's the security detail text. Long-term arrangement, professional not romantic. That's a different category entirely—recurring income but sustained contact, higher exposure risk. You'd need someone stable, consistent, physically credible. Maarten could work, but he's already Vanessa's. Khalid or Richard, maybe.

You open a notepad file, start drafting responses. The cursor blinks steady in the empty field. Outside, a car alarm goes off three blocks away, cuts silent after thirty seconds.

Your phone sits facedown on the desk. The unknown number's text still waiting for reply.

-- Turn 12 --

Action

WEAR THE MASK: Accept all three bookings—respond with matched personas and confirm availability

Outcome

You draft the first response to PressureValve. Your fingers hover over the keyboard, then type: "Your inquiry has been reviewed. Alessandro Vitale is available Monday evening for the investor dinner. He has experience in the startup ecosystem and can discuss venture capital intelligently without appearing coached. Rate: $3,500 for four hours. Please confirm location and timing details."

You read it twice. Professional. Distant. No hint that the admin and Alessandro are the same organism.

Second response to NightOwl_BK: "Richard Vance is available for overnight arrangement Saturday. Six-four, athletic build, experienced with discretion protocols. Brooklyn Heights location confirmed. Rate: $8,000. No advance meeting required—he'll arrive at the specified time."

The phrasing matters. He'll arrive. Not I'll arrive. You're scheduling someone else's time, someone who exists independently of this laptop screen.

Third response to Meridian_Collector takes longer to compose. You need the right tone—cultured but not pretentious. "Bastien Morel is an excellent match for your Sunday gallery event. French background, fluent in contemporary art discourse, comfortable in formal collector environments. He's represented clients at similar functions and understands the dynamics. Rate: $4,000 for four hours. Please provide dress code specifications and guest list overview if available."

You hit send on all three. The messages queue, then disappear into encrypted channels.

Your phone buzzes almost immediately. PressureValve: "Monday 7 PM, The Grill on East 53rd. Confirm Alessandro."

You type back through the admin portal: "Confirmed. Alessandro will meet you in the lobby at 6:55 PM."

Then NightOwl_BK: "Saturday 11 PM. Penthouse is 185 Columbia Heights, unit 12A. Doorman will have instructions. Confirm Richard."

"Confirmed."

Meridian_Collector takes three minutes to respond: "Sunday 6 PM at Meridian Gallery, 547 West 26th. Black tie. Guest list includes Sotheby's reps and two German collectors who appreciate European sensibility. Please ensure Bastien understands this is professional networking, not romantic. Confirm."

You reply: "Bastien understands the parameters. Confirmed."

The calendar populates. Three bookings. Fifteen thousand five hundred dollars. Your accumulated funds will jump to just over twenty thousand.

The unknown number's text still sits unanswered at the bottom of your notifications. Security detail. Long-term arrangement. You stare at it for a moment, then swipe it away. That's a different category of risk.

Downstairs, your father's footsteps creak across the restaurant floor—final lockup routine. Your mother's voice drifts up, saying something in Indonesian you can't quite catch.

Your laptop screen glows with three confirmed bookings. Monday, Saturday, Sunday. Three different faces. Three different bodies. Three different names.

All you.

-- Turn 13 --

Action

INDULGE: Spend tomorrow (Saturday) grounding yourself before the NightOwl booking—real life, real identity, full day as Aditya

Outcome

You set an alarm for seven AM and actually sleep.

Saturday morning arrives with the restaurant already awake below you—the familiar percussion of prep work, your mother's voice directing someone about the spice inventory. You pull on worn jeans and a faded Columbia t-shirt you bought when the acceptance letter first arrived, back when it felt like a guarantee instead of a gamble.

Downstairs, your father is replacing a broken stove grate. He glances up when you enter. "You're up early for a Saturday."

"Couldn't sleep in." You pour coffee, lean against the counter. "Need help with anything today?"

Your mother emerges from the walk-in cooler carrying a tray of marinated chicken. "We're doing a catering order for a birthday party this afternoon. Fifty people. You can help pack the containers if you want."

You spend the morning doing exactly that. Portioning rice. Sealing containers. Labeling everything in your mother's careful handwriting because she doesn't trust anyone else's. Your hands smell like sambal and fried shallots. Your back aches from standing. It's completely ordinary.

Lunch rush hits at noon. You work the register while your mother manages the kitchen and your father handles tables. A regular—Mrs. Chen from three blocks over—asks how school applications went. You tell her Columbia accepted you. She beams, tells you your parents must be so proud, asks when you start. You say August, maybe, if the financial aid comes through.

The lie sits easier than it should.

Afternoon fades into evening prep. You chop vegetables. Your mother hums something Indonesian under her breath. Your father fixes another chair. The three of you exist in comfortable silence, the kind that comes from fifteen years of shared space and routine.

Around seven, your mother shoos you upstairs. "Go rest. You've been on your feet all day."

You climb the stairs to your room. Lock the door. Your laptop sits closed on the desk. Your phone shows two texts—one from PressureValve confirming Monday's details, one from an unknown number asking about persona availability for next week.

You ignore both.

The envelope under your bed holds forty-nine hundred fifty dollars. Tonight you'll add eight thousand more. By tomorrow evening, you'll have earned fifteen thousand five hundred total from three bookings.

Your reflection in the closet mirror shows exactly who you are: Aditya Vermeer, nineteen, tired from a day's honest work, smelling like restaurant kitchen, completely yourself.

In three hours, you'll become Richard Vance. Six-four, massive, athletic. Brooklyn Heights penthouse. Overnight arrangement. No small talk required.

But right now, for these last few hours, you're just you.

-- Turn 14 --

Action

WEAR THE MASK: Shift to Richard Vance and head to Brooklyn Heights for the 11 PM booking

Outcome

You wait until the restaurant noise settles into its evening rhythm—plates clattering, your mother's voice giving instructions in Indonesian, your father's measured footsteps moving between tables. When the sounds feel distant enough, you lock your bedroom door and pull the blinds.

The mirror on your closet shows Aditya Vermeer. Lean. Unremarkable. Nineteen years old and tired from a day's honest work. You strip down to nothing, folding your clothes onto the bed with unnecessary precision. Stalling.

Then you begin.

Height surges first—vertebrae elongating, perspective climbing. The ceiling drops closer. Muscle mass floods outward: shoulders broadening into heavy slabs, chest expanding, arms thickening with dense functional strength. Your face restructures—jawline squaring and hardening, brow ridge becoming more pronounced, cheekbones flattening into blunt masculine planes. Hair lightens from dark brown to blonde, shortening into a tight military cut with volume on top. Eyes shift from brown-blue to cold blue. Skin tone adjusts subtly paler.

Clothing materializes: dark jeans that fit snug across massive thighs, a plain black henley stretched tight over a powerful chest, leather jacket that looks worn-in and expensive, boots that add another inch of presence.

Thirty-four seconds.

I'm looking down at furniture that used to be eye-level. My hands could palm a basketball without effort. The mirror shows a man who's spent decades building the kind of body that makes people move out of doorways without being asked. My voice when I test it—"Richard Vance"—comes out lower, rougher, like gravel scraped across concrete. Everything feels heavier. Denser. Like I'm wearing armor made of my own biology.

You leave through the side entrance, moving quietly despite your size. The N train platform is nearly empty. A woman waiting near the turnstile glances up, does a double-take, moves three feet to her left without seeming to realize she's done it.

The train ride to Brooklyn Heights takes forty minutes. You stand near the door, one hand gripping the overhead rail. Your reflection in the dark window shows Richard Vance—six-four, massive, completely self-contained. Nobody approaches. Nobody makes eye contact.

Columbia Heights is all old money and quiet wealth. You find 185 without difficulty—elegant pre-war building, discreet entrance, doorman in his fifties reading something behind a marble desk. He looks up when you enter.

"Richard Vance," you say. "Unit 12A."

He doesn't ask for ID. Just nods once, reaches for the phone, murmurs something you don't catch. Then: "Twelfth floor. Elevator's to your left."

The elevator is all brass and mirrors. You watch Richard Vance ascend through twelve floors of expensive real estate. When the doors open, there's only one door visible—12A, black lacquer, no name plate.

It's 10:53 PM.

You raise your hand to knock, then pause. Beyond this door is eight thousand dollars and an overnight arrangement with no small talk required. Whatever happens next, Richard Vance is who walks through it. Not Aditya. Not anyone else.

You knock twice. Firm. Controlled.

Footsteps approach from inside.

-- Turn 15 --

Action

RIDE THE WAVE: Enter when door opens, follow the client's lead, let them establish the dynamic

Outcome

The door opens inward with practiced silence.

The man standing in the doorway is maybe forty-five, maybe fifty—it's hard to tell with the kind of wealth that buys excellent skincare and strategic Botox. He's shorter than you by several inches, wearing tailored grey slacks and a black cashmere sweater that probably cost more than your parents' monthly rent. Dark hair touched with silver at the temples. Sharp cheekbones. Eyes that move over you with the same assessment you'd give expensive furniture.

"Richard," he says. Not a question. His voice is clipped, precise. Northeastern money accent—old prep school, Ivy League, corner offices.

You nod once. "Yes."

He steps back, gestures you inside without offering his hand. The apartment beyond is exactly what you'd expect—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the harbor, minimalist furniture in shades of grey and white, art on the walls that's probably worth six figures. Everything looks curated. Nothing looks lived-in.

The door closes behind you with a soft click. He engages two locks without looking, muscle memory from years of privacy concerns.

"Coat," he says, and you shrug out of the leather jacket. He takes it, hangs it in a closet by the entrance with movements that suggest he's used to handling other people's clothing. When he turns back, his eyes move over you again—slower this time. Clinical. Appreciative.

"Turn around."

You do. Slow. Letting him look.

The weight of being observed like this—it's different in Richard's body. There's no vulnerability. Just controlled demonstration of what eight thousand dollars bought.

"Good," he says when you face him again. He moves closer, stops just within arm's reach. You can smell his cologne—something expensive and subtle, cedar and bergamot. "You're exactly what I requested. They said you don't do small talk."

"I don't."

"Perfect." He reaches out, places one hand flat against your chest. The touch is possessive, testing. His palm is warm through the henley's fabric. "Bedroom's through there. Strip down to nothing and wait on the bed. On your back. I'll be there in five minutes."

His hand drops away. He steps back, waiting for your response—not asking permission, just confirming you understand the arrangement.

Eight thousand dollars. Overnight. No conversation required.

Richard Vance knows exactly what this is.

-----------

To be continue....

What you should do? Your choise drive the story

DEEPEN IT

RIDE THE WAVE

REFRAME

Voting ended onApr 26

DEEPEN IT: Close distance and initiate physical contact—take control of the dynamic instead of following

RIDE THE WAVE: Comply—go to the bedroom, strip down, wait as directed

REFRAME: Establish boundaries before proceeding—clarify what's included in the arrangement

Start your journey as shapeshifter here, who do you become first?:

**Accepted to Columbia.** **Too Broke to Go.** **So I Started Renting Myself.** LuxeCompanion is an elite dating service. Clients think the

#male shapeshifter #male transformation #infinite worlds #male shapeshift #hot male #shapeshifter #ai generated #interactive fiction #luxecompanion #male bodybuilder #interactive story #short story #storytelling #story #stories #ideas #fiction #the perfect date #Nsfw

croisants

My Infinite Worlds Index (Update)

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EVERY FACE IS A DOOR.

my complete Infinite Worlds index.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

I've always been drawn to RPGs where I control the decisions — but most games give you two or three choices and call it freedom.

If you don't have an account yet: new users get 1,200 free credits + 2–3 free turns every day just for signing up. Enough to explore before you commit to anything.

Everything below is mine. Pick a door.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

[ THE FLAGSHIP · shapeshifter · mechanics-heavy ]

NEW: LuxeCompanion: Shapeshifter on Campus ↳ https://infiniteworlds.app/shared/mVGXDe

What if being a shapeshifter in New York wasn't a superpower — just a survival strategy? Bodyguard, escort, whoever pays the bills. Every face is a door. Every shift is a risk. tags: shapeshifter · college · survival · double life New version when you already became a student at Columbia

★ LuxeCompanion: The Perfect Date Charade

↳ infiniteworlds.app/shared/sJUycg (NSFW) ↳ infiniteworlds.app/shared/ixxzyY (SFW)

What if you need money for college and could shapeshift into anyone — and someone was willing to pay for it? Every booking earns money, raises risk, and pulls you further from whoever you actually are. tags: shapeshifter · persona system · double life · identity crisis · BDSM Some story already at my Tumblr here

LuxeCompanion: Your Perfect Date (Client POV)

↳ infiniteworlds.app/shared/bzG7u6

What if every date you booked felt impossibly perfect — and you started to suspect they were all the same person?

────────────────────────────────

[ DREAD UNDER THE SURFACE ]

psychological · dark · identity erosion

The self as negotiable.

(Not) Coach Henderson: Behind His Eyes

↳ infiniteworlds.app/shared/Yim9R3

What if a lightning strike swapped your body with the school's most intimidating coach — and a year later, you realized you didn't want to switch back?

Continue story from here by @verus-veritas and @fullfriendnerdpurse

tags: body swap · villain protagonist · coercion · gay

Imprint: The Many Lives of Benny Huang

↳ infiniteworlds.app/shared/W99TnY

What if you figured out how to copy your consciousness into other people's bodies — and you were one vessel away from completing the hive?

Continue story from here by @fullfriendnerdpurse

tags: possession · hive mind · sci-fi · thriller

The Persistence

↳https://infiniteworlds.app/shared/KCWR6b

What if you died — but you could still slip into the living, full control, full override — and the only thing stopping you from reaching your partner was whether it still counted as love? tags: possession · grief · obsession · consent

THE REGISTRY

https://infiniteworlds.app/shared/ogyY2G

What if you found a laptop that rewrote reality around whoever you stepped into — and every session made it harder to remember who you were before you opened it? tags: identity theft · reality warping · permission tiers

Clayface: The Shape of Shadows

↳ infiniteworlds.app/shared/VF3U6h

What if Batman came to you — not with handcuffs, but an offer — and you weren't sure which was more dangerous? tags: DC · antihero · shapeshifter

Doppler: The Face I Wore

↳ infiniteworlds.app/shared/TTbaif

What if you were the last free shapeshifter in a city hunting your kind — and your greatest advantage was that you were already wearing their faces? tags: Witcher · shapeshifter · infiltration

────────────────────────────────

[ THE SCORE · revenge · power shift · dark satisfaction ]

Someone hurt you. Now you're bigger. Now you're inside.

New Coach: Ethan, et al. — A Shapeshifter's Revenge Game

↳ infiniteworlds.app/shared/gqprxA

What if you could be the forgettable kid, the terrifying coach, and the charming new transfer — all at once — and use all three to dismantle the person who made your life hell? Faithfull adaptation my story New Coach story when story start with Ethan as Coach Vance at first day

The Shapeshifter Boy's Revenge

↳https://infiniteworlds.app/shared/vTLjGe

What if you could be three people at once — and use every single one of them to make your bully's world collapse from the inside? First IW adaptation from my story New Coach story when story put in the middle plot.

Built for Revenge: The Boy Behind the Coach

↳ infiniteworlds.app/shared/MvQJy9

What if a teenage boy with a gift put you — a fully-formed adult with military muscle and institutional authority — inside his school, and handed you a list of targets? Revenge . hypnotize

Shapeshifter's Rise

↳https://infiniteworlds.app/shared/9kwRbv

What if you could become any man you touched, absorb his memories, and use it all to climb straight to the top of the city's most feared criminal empire? My first public IW story. Maybe it's not my best work but I proud of my work.

A Throne Built From Faces

↳https://infiniteworlds.app/shared/A3wDYT

What if you finally reached the throne you built from stolen identities — and had to decide what kind of ruler you'd be? Upgrade IW from Shapeshifter's Rise.

────────────────────────────────

[ ABSURDIST CHAOS ]

comedy · sandbox · wish fulfillment

When consequence is optional.

★ Fraternity Rewrite Reality

↳ infiniteworlds.app/shared/Yk6Hkr

What if the most powerful guy on campus got bored of being a god and swapped with you — and reality came with the body? tags: reality warping · body swap · campus power · sandbox

The Fifth-Dimensional Playground

↳ infiniteworlds.app/shared/ftXqXR

What if you inherited Mister Mxyzptlk's reality-warping powers and his complete lack of empathy — and the entire DC, Marvel, and Boys multiverse was yours to poke, reshape, or watch burn? tags: DC · Marvel · The Boys · omnipotent · sandbox

Djinn: The Lamp of Al-Qadir

↳ infiniteworlds.app/shared/dGyGbW

What if you were a djinn who'd been granting wishes for three thousand years — and your newest master bought you at a flea market for twelve lira?

Step-Dad's Body, Neighbor's Wives

↳ infiniteworlds.app/shared/JYPkKW

What if a freak accident put a depressed 19-year-old into his abusive stepfather's USMC body — and nobody was awake to stop him? Adaptation from this story by @onelinerbust

I Am Not an Easy Man - Je ne suis pas un homme facile

↳ infiniteworlds.app/shared/hUVH4M

What if a shameless Parisian playboy woke up in a parallel Paris where every power dynamic he'd ever exploited was now aimed directly at him? Adaptation from a film with same title from Netflix

────────────────────────────────

[ LOVE IN BORROWED SKIN · romance · identity blur ]

Is it still them? Are you still you? Does it matter?

★ One Click From Desire

↳ infiniteworlds.app/shared/6Kvwsf

What if a wish-site rewrote reality around you — made you powerful, desired, untouchable — and you were the only one who remembered what you used to be? Big influence from this story by @superheavyftms

Technically Faithful, In Any Body

↳ infiniteworlds.app/shared/7xbyNu

What if your partner could possess anyone — and you had to decide whether that still counted as faithful?

My Shapeshifter Roommate, My Command

↳https://infiniteworlds.app/shared/JNawgw

What if your most insufferable roommate turned out to be a shapeshifter — and you only found out because you hypnotized them in frustration?

Sakurasou Pet Girlfriend

↳https://infiniteworlds.app/shared/Vb6JYv

What if you lived in a dormitory full of the most talented, most chaotic, most emotionally unavoidable people you'd ever met — and you had to fight to keep it from being demolished? Inspire from Anime with same title

────────────────────────────────

[ HOLLOW THEM OUT · mind control · obedience ]

The most terrifying possession is the one they don't notice.

★ Master Devin: The Puppet Brother's Master

↳ infiniteworlds.app/shared/y7K7kz

What if you spent years conditioning your overachieving brother into a perfectly obedient drone — and someone started asking why he never seemed to think for himself? Continue this story by @bluecollarmcandtf

The Caddy: Men Under His Command (Caddy POV)

↳ infiniteworlds.app/shared/jdJWP2

What if you were a nobody caddy who discovered you could bend the will of the wealthiest men in the county — just by meeting their eyes? Adaptation from this story from @bluecollarmcandtf

The Caddy's Course (Golfer POV)

↳https://infiniteworlds.app/shared/G2oj99

What if the most powerful men at your country club were smiling too wide, signing over their assets, and their eyes behind the sunglasses were milky and blank — and you were the only one who noticed? Adaptation from this story from @bluecollarmcandtf

The Caddy's Command

↳https://infiniteworlds.app/shared/WRn9tE

What if your caddy had the power to reach inside your mind — and you, Jonathan Harrington, were a Fortune 500 CEO with everything to lose?

The Host: Symbiotic Takeover

↳ infiniteworlds.app/shared/pixGaA

What if you and a sentient alien slime had perfected the art of taking hosts — keeping them conscious, trapped, and completely under your control — and your next target was a cop? tags: alien symbiote · body horror · mind control · psychological thriller · sci-fi · alien invasion Inspired from this story by @apushforfolly

────────────────────────────────

[ THE BODY ISN'T YOURS ]

gender swap · fusion · transformation

He Was My Daughters (Dad POV)

↳ infiniteworlds.app/shared/GX2rV9

What if your two daughters fused into a towering bodyguard to save your life — and you had to figure out how to be his father? Continue this story from @superheavyftms

Claimed in Iron: I Was His Daughters ("Son" POV)

↳ infiniteworlds.app/shared/pP9TNq

What if you were born three months ago — 6'8", 325lbs, from the fusion of two girls who no longer exist — and your only job was to keep your father alive through election night? Continue this story from @superheavyftms

X-Change: The Acquisition

↳https://infiniteworlds.app/shared/Ycn3Qu

What if the pill that was supposed to help you close a nine-figure deal started making you forget whose side you were on? MtF, Gender Altercation

I'm (Not) Muslim (?)

↳ infiniteworlds.app/shared/vWwMoq

What if you woke up in a body inside a Muslim household — memories intact, world completely different — and had to confront everything you thought you knew?

The Body You Woke In

https://infiniteworlds.app/shared/qRoKHd

What if every human consciousness on Earth swapped bodies at 03:17 UTC — and you opened your eyes inside someone with enemies who weren't going to wait for you to catch up? Inspire from great shift stories, but still lack improvement

────────────────────────────────

[ ADULT LIFE · romance · intimacy · real stakes ]

Not fantasy. Not power trips. Just the complicated, tender, messy reality of adult relationships — the moments most games never bother to simulate.

My Breastfeeding Wife (NEW!) ↳ https://infiniteworlds.app/shared/fg4Rbw

What if the woman you married gave everything for six months — every feeding, every sleepless night — and forgot she was still the woman you'd choose all over again? one careful, tender reminder at a time.tags: marriage · postpartum · intimacy · romance

────────────────────────────────

[ ALSO IN THE COLLECTION ]

Faces in the Mirror: An Orphan's Thousand Faces

↳https://infiniteworlds.app/shared/CVgjVT

What if you were 18, fresh out of foster care, and the only identity you had was the ability to wear everyone else's?

Shapeshifter: The Long Con

↳ infiniteworlds.app/shared/UEMkfW

What if you could become any person in LA — and the city's richest, loneliest elite were all one good disguise away from $10 million?

Prototype: Blacklight Aftermath

↳https://infiniteworlds.app/shared/PL7yRt

What if you reformed from scattered biomass in the waters off Manhattan — and something in the city's infrastructure was being built from what was left of you? Inspired from Prototype game, plot is after 1st end game

The Face of Power

↳https://infiniteworlds.app/shared/Hvq3tQ

What if you accidentally killed a crime lord, took his face, and now had to convince his entire organization you were the monster — while secretly trying not to be?

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Discord: the_knight_croissant

feedback · collab · character requests

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croisants

Update as April 21th, 2026

Hey guys, I just update the index

New story: LuxeCompanion: Shapeshifter on Campus; spinoff story when MC is already became student at Columbia and how he survive his campus life

New story: Adults Life Series: My Breastfeeding Wife; not fantasy story, just how you as husband support your breastfeeding wife

New update: Fifth-Dimensional Playground; now you can start which hero/vilain you mess up first

Have you any idea what story you want at Infinite Worlds? Please DM me

Which world should I build next? Vote below 👇

An orphan shapeshifter who becomes his own adopted father

You shapeshift into your boss to survive a corporate war

A nobody who wakes up as the most feared crime lord in the city

You inherit a billionaire's body, memories, and enemies

Voting ended onApr 28

croisants

My Infinite Worlds Index (Update)

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

EVERY FACE IS A DOOR.

my complete Infinite Worlds index.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

I've always been drawn to RPGs where I control the decisions — but most games give you two or three choices and call it freedom.

If you don't have an account yet: new users get 1,200 free credits + 2–3 free turns every day just for signing up. Enough to explore before you commit to anything.

Everything below is mine. Pick a door.

────────────────────────────────

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

[ NEW THIS WEEK ]

🕐 Updated regularly.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

★ The Host: Symbiotic Takeover

↳ infiniteworlds.app/shared/pixGaA

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

[ THE FLAGSHIP · shapeshifter · mechanics-heavy ]

★ LuxeCompanion: The Perfect Date Charade (NSFW)

↳ infiniteworlds.app/shared/sJUycg

What if you could shapeshift into anyone — and someone was willing to pay for it? Every booking earns money, raises risk, and pulls you further from whoever you actually are. tags: shapeshifter · persona system · double life · identity crisis · BDSM Some story already at my Tumblr here

LuxeCompanion: Your Perfect Date (Client POV) [282 turns]

↳ infiniteworlds.app/shared/bzG7u6

What if every date you booked felt impossibly perfect — and you started to suspect they were all the same person?

────────────────────────────────

[ DREAD UNDER THE SURFACE ]

psychological · dark · identity erosion

The self as negotiable.

(Not) Coach Henderson: Behind His Eyes

↳ infiniteworlds.app/shared/Yim9R3

What if a lightning strike swapped your body with the school's most intimidating coach — and a year later, you realized you didn't want to switch back?

Continue story from here by @verus-veritas and @fullfriendnerdpurse

tags: body swap · villain protagonist · coercion · gay

Imprint: The Many Lives of Benny Huang

↳ infiniteworlds.app/shared/W99TnY

What if you figured out how to copy your consciousness into other people's bodies — and you were one vessel away from completing the hive?

Continue story from here by @fullfriendnerdpurse

tags: possession · hive mind · sci-fi · thriller

The Persistence

↳https://infiniteworlds.app/shared/KCWR6b

THE REGISTRY

https://infiniteworlds.app/shared/ogyY2G

Clayface: The Shape of Shadows

↳ infiniteworlds.app/shared/VF3U6h

What if Batman came to you — not with handcuffs, but an offer — and you weren't sure which was more dangerous? tags: DC · antihero · shapeshifter

Doppler: The Face I Wore

↳ infiniteworlds.app/shared/TTbaif

What if you were the last free shapeshifter in a city hunting your kind — and your greatest advantage was that you were already wearing their faces? tags: Witcher · shapeshifter · infiltration

────────────────────────────────

[ THE SCORE · revenge · power shift · dark satisfaction ]

Someone hurt you. Now you're bigger. Now you're inside.

New Coach: Ethan, et al. — A Shapeshifter's Revenge Game

↳ infiniteworlds.app/shared/gqprxA

The Shapeshifter Boy's Revenge

↳https://infiniteworlds.app/shared/vTLjGe

Built for Revenge: The Boy Behind the Coach

↳ infiniteworlds.app/shared/MvQJy9

What if a teenage boy with a gift put you — a fully-formed adult with military muscle and institutional authority — inside his school, and handed you a list of targets? Revenge . hypnotize

Shapeshifter's Rise

↳https://infiniteworlds.app/shared/9kwRbv

A Throne Built From Faces

↳https://infiniteworlds.app/shared/A3wDYT

What if you finally reached the throne you built from stolen identities — and had to decide what kind of ruler you'd be? Upgrade IW from Shapeshifter's Rise.

────────────────────────────────

[ ABSURDIST CHAOS ]

comedy · sandbox · wish fulfillment

When consequence is optional.

★ Fraternity Rewrite Reality

↳ infiniteworlds.app/shared/Yk6Hkr

What if the most powerful guy on campus got bored of being a god and swapped with you — and reality came with the body? tags: reality warping · body swap · campus power · sandbox

The Fifth-Dimensional Playground

↳ infiniteworlds.app/shared/ftXqXR

Djinn: The Lamp of Al-Qadir

↳ infiniteworlds.app/shared/dGyGbW

What if you were a djinn who'd been granting wishes for three thousand years — and your newest master bought you at a flea market for twelve lira?

Step-Dad's Body, Neighbor's Wives

↳ infiniteworlds.app/shared/JYPkKW

What if a freak accident put a depressed 19-year-old into his abusive stepfather's USMC body — and nobody was awake to stop him? Adaptation from this story by @onelinerbust

I Am Not an Easy Man - Je ne suis pas un homme facile

↳ infiniteworlds.app/shared/hUVH4M

What if a shameless Parisian playboy woke up in a parallel Paris where every power dynamic he'd ever exploited was now aimed directly at him? Adaptation from a film with same title from Netflix

────────────────────────────────

[ LOVE IN BORROWED SKIN · romance · identity blur ]

Is it still them? Are you still you? Does it matter?

★ One Click From Desire

↳ infiniteworlds.app/shared/6Kvwsf

Technically Faithful, In Any Body

↳ infiniteworlds.app/shared/7xbyNu

What if your partner could possess anyone — and you had to decide whether that still counted as faithful?

My Shapeshifter Roommate, My Command

↳https://infiniteworlds.app/shared/JNawgw

What if your most insufferable roommate turned out to be a shapeshifter — and you only found out because you hypnotized them in frustration?

Sakurasou Pet Girlfriend

↳https://infiniteworlds.app/shared/Vb6JYv

────────────────────────────────

[ HOLLOW THEM OUT · mind control · obedience ]

The most terrifying possession is the one they don't notice.

★ Master Devin: The Puppet Brother's Master

↳ infiniteworlds.app/shared/y7K7kz

The Caddy: Men Under His Command (Caddy POV)

↳ infiniteworlds.app/shared/jdJWP2

What if you were a nobody caddy who discovered you could bend the will of the wealthiest men in the county — just by meeting their eyes? Adaptation from this story from @bluecollarmcandtf

The Caddy's Course (Golfer POV)

↳https://infiniteworlds.app/shared/G2oj99

The Caddy's Command

↳https://infiniteworlds.app/shared/WRn9tE

What if your caddy had the power to reach inside your mind — and you, Jonathan Harrington, were a Fortune 500 CEO with everything to lose?

────────────────────────────────

[ THE BODY ISN'T YOURS ]

gender swap · fusion · transformation

He Was My Daughters (Dad POV)

↳ infiniteworlds.app/shared/GX2rV9

What if your two daughters fused into a towering bodyguard to save your life — and you had to figure out how to be his father? Continue this story from @superheavyftms

Claimed in Iron: I Was His Daughters ("Son" POV)

↳ infiniteworlds.app/shared/pP9TNq

X-Change: The Acquisition [13 turns]

↳https://infiniteworlds.app/shared/Ycn3Qu

What if the pill that was supposed to help you close a nine-figure deal started making you forget whose side you were on? MtF, Gender Altercation

I'm (Not) Muslim (?)

↳ infiniteworlds.app/shared/vWwMoq

What if you woke up in a body inside a Muslim household — memories intact, world completely different — and had to confront everything you thought you knew?

The Body You Woke In

https://infiniteworlds.app/shared/qRoKHd

────────────────────────────────

[ ALSO IN THE COLLECTION ]

Faces in the Mirror: An Orphan's Thousand Faces

↳https://infiniteworlds.app/shared/CVgjVT

What if you were 18, fresh out of foster care, and the only identity you had was the ability to wear everyone else's?

Shapeshifter: The Long Con

↳ infiniteworlds.app/shared/UEMkfW

What if you could become any person in LA — and the city's richest, loneliest elite were all one good disguise away from $10 million?

Prototype: Blacklight Aftermath

↳https://infiniteworlds.app/shared/PL7yRt

The Face of Power

↳https://infiniteworlds.app/shared/Hvq3tQ

What if you accidentally killed a crime lord, took his face, and now had to convince his entire organization you were the monster — while secretly trying not to be?

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croisants

Update as April 18th, 2026

Hey guys, I just update the index with few new things

New Worlds story: THE HOST: Symbiotic Takeover

The Fifth-Dimensional Playground: Heroes and Villains at Your Fingertips > With Comic panel illustration update

The Caddy: Men Under His Command > New Action option system

(Not) Coach Henderson: Behind His Eyes > Update illustration rules

Claimed in Iron: I Was His Daughters > Update illustration rules and few story updated

If you have feedback or ideas please DM me

bluecollarmcandtf

Empty, Obedient, Golfers

Mornings were always the calmest time for the country club, and this one was especially quiet. If you didn't know any better, you'd think everything was just as it should be. As always, the club's most elite members were leisurely strolling through the course. No one noticed the men's strange behavior...or their eyes...

"Sunglasses off, men," Rico broke the silence, unveiling an unnaturally soulless stare, "I think we're far enough out."

The retired entrepreneur could barely hide his excitement as he watched his fellow club members pull off their shades. Each of their eyes were like his: white, blank, and empty. A little voice in the back of his head told him this was good; he was a good slave for bringing his friends under the control of his master. That voice was the only sound in Rico's mind, so he had no choice but to believe it wholeheartedly.

"The master told me he'll be joining us in an hour," Rico continued, letting the smile plastered across his face grow.

He could feel his cock stiffen up at the mere mention of his master. His friends were all the same. Their pants tented similarly, some even moaned at the thought of their enslaver, and one guy just fell to his knees instinctively. These, of course, weren't their instincts, but the only instincts that remained in the husks of these powerful men.

"Do you all remember the tasks our master gave each of you last week?" butterflies filled his stomach as he asked the question. Suddenly, a fire ignited inside him, "Brody! Jameson! Report, now!"

"Sure, Rico," Brody answered for the two of them.

"We've managed to finalize our divorces as fast as possible," a placid grin sat on Jameson's face as he said it.

"It wasn't easy. I had to threaten my wife to get her to leave me alone," Brody added numbly, "I will never speak to her again."

Brody believed every word he said. Ever since Rico had introduced him to his new master, his free will had ceased to exist. He lived to serve at his owner's whim, and when that owner ordered him to leave his wife and take everything in the divorce, he did exactly that. His feelings for Rebecca left with his free will, so he was happy to kick her out and take all her money. His love, attention, and wealth was directed towards his master now.

"We're engaged as well," Jameson reported.

Jameson's brain had been drained similarly to Brody's, except his divorce had been a lot messier. With two toddlers and a baby on the way, his sudden departure threw his loved ones into a frenzy. His friends despised him while his parents basically disowned him. Jameson's only thoughts through the whole ordeal were focused on his master's will. He vehemently insisted that his wife take sole custody of the children. His master didn't want a slave with babies, so he needed that woman to take them away forever.

"Happily, engaged," Brody added.

Both men reached around the other. With choreographed movements, their hands slid up and squeezed their new partner's ass. Both Brody and Jameson knew that they were to be "happy, himbo, hubbies" as the voice in their head put it. That phrase had been bouncing around their empty skulls constantly, ever since their master said it a week ago.

The old Brody and Jameson might have been straight family men, but they were just vessels for their master's entertainment now. If he wanted them to act all queer, then they were happy to do it!

"That's good you two. Keep it up," Rico remarked, "And remember to hold hands in public from now on. The master wants you two to be cat very gay from now on."

Jameson and Brody nodded, squeezing each other's hand as their master was mentioned.

"How about you, Derrick?" Rico continued.

"I've been a good boy for our master," the bulky CEO reported emphatically.

Derrick was right. By all means, he had been a very good boy for his owner. It started at the beginning of the week when he fired his house staff. With a mansion, that included a small army of people, but the little voice inside his head assured him that this was right.

"I signed my property over to our master," he announced proudly, "And I'm getting ready to give my entire future to him too."

"That's good Derrick!" Rico praised, "So you'll be stepping down soon?"

Derrick nodded gleefully. His master was going to replace him as the CEO of his multi-million-dollar company. He would gladly step down and let his master enjoy all the money and power he'd accrued over the years. Derrick's new place in life was a much humbler one. He'd be taking over the dirty work of his master's mansion, serving as groundskeeper, chef, janitor, and even butler. He'd spent his whole week practicing.

Derrick would return from a day of acting like his old self in the office. The minute he stepped inside the mansion, he stripped off that designer suit and pull on something more fitting for a servant. Then he'd go about cleaning and maintaining the estate. His master had yet to step foot inside the place, but he worked hard every night to make sure it was perfect whenever the master did stop by.

"You're not living in his house, right?"

"Of course not. I moved into the utility shack on the edge of the property. It has a hose and a cot. The master said that's all I need."

"He's right," Rico enforced, "And I imagine you'll be getting out of those fancy golf clothes as soon as you aren't in public."

"Yes!" Derrick nodded, "They're just for show. I've got an old jumpsuit in the car!"

Rico was filled with joy. His friends were obeying their master so well! Derrick used to be a prideful, no-nonsense executive, but that sure wasn't the case anymore!

"I'll report next," a new guy jumped in.

"Master charged me with cleaning his shoes this week," Tom continued, speaking seriously.

In reality, the master had almost forgotten to give instructions to Tom. Luckily, the politician's son caught his master before he and the other obedient hunks of meat were dismissed. Thinking on the fly, the master kicked off his dirty sneakers and told Tom to "suck them clean for a week."

Tom was relieved to finally have a task; a special way he could be of use to their master. He quickly picked up the first shoe and started licking. He spent his whole week that way, sitting in his bedroom, sucking every speck of dirt off those old tennis shoes.

"My tongue is really dry, now," he reported, "But they're clean!"

Tom held up the sneakers with pride. After a week of doing nothing else, he'd become rather familiar with the old shoes. He could still taste the lingering flavor of the old gum he'd spent hours working off the bottom of the shoe. The sneakers were a lot whiter than they used to be! Even still, he had the urge to drag his tongue across them a few more times. Maybe he could get them even whiter before their master showed up.

"Me next," came a grunting reply from another one of Rico's friends.

Sebastian raised a heavy arm and aired the swampy pit soaking through his shirt. With some lumbering steps, he brought his underarm to Rico's face, asking, "Do I smell?"

Rico recoiled but collected himself and took a long whiff of Sebastian's rank body odor, "Yes."

"Our master told me he wants me to smell like crap," Sebastian explained dumbly, "He told me not to bathe or change clothes."

"So you're wearing...?"

"...what I was wearing last week," Sebastian finished, "I haven't taken my clothes off for anything."

It was true. Sebastian left his clothes on for all seven days. As a tennis instructor, he didn't look too out of place wearing a golf polo and chinos, but a lot of people began to notice as the sweat began building up in them. After a few days, it was intolerable, and he was asked to go home and clean himself up. Of course, he didn't. The voice in his head told him to keep it all on and just sit in his funk until the master could appreciate it.

"Is he going to like it?" Sebastian whined, shoving his moist armpit even closer to Rico's face.

"Yes!" Rico managed, unable to escape before his friend covered his face in pit sweat.

Rico whipped his head around and stared at the rolling green hills of the golf course. He needed his master to be there soon. All of the golfers were becoming unbearably horny. They couldn't stop imaging their master, the guy that had once been their caddy, finally being in their presence again. Sure he was nineteen, skinny, and riddled with acne, but none of his slaves cared. They just wanted him to be there to boss them around and tell them what to think.

Like he had been manifested by the men themselves, their master came over the hill and into view. Dopamine flooded each of their minds, but Rico started to panic!

He'd been put in charge of both enslaving his friends and keeping them enslaved. Rico knew it was a big responsibility; at least, that's what the voice in his head told him. His internal monologue also reminded him that he would whack himself in the balls with a golf club for each man that failed to follow the master's instructions. He had only checked half of the master's slaves!

Rico hoped the others had been just as diligent as the first half. He wouldn't mind the physical pain. He wouldn't even mind seeing everyone laugh at his self-punishment, but he couldn't bear to disappoint master. He had to be useful to the master. It was the only thing any of them were good for anymore...

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