Art by  Moved to Or-Fi-S
Editing by  fzygal

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Vy inhaled deeply one more time before forcing all of the air from his lungs once again. As he did so, he clenched his abdominal muscles, sucking in his stomach as much as possible while tugging at the leather and canvas panels at either side. He strained, sweat soaking his hair, running down the fur of his face and out to the end of his muzzle. Then, just as he thought he was going to pass out from the booze and lack of oxygen, the two sides of the corset finally matched-up and locked into place.

He wanted to double over while he caught his breath, but with this new restriction around his midection, he wasn’t quite sure how. He settled for stumbling forward and leaning against the dresser while his lungs, slightly constricted, attempted to re-oxygenate his blood.

Vy had found the corset weeks ago when cleaning up the disaster he’d made of the closet. It was something that had belonged to NeAnne though she had seldom worn it; dark matte-gray pleather, overbust but cupless—nearly flat.. Vy knew that it would most certainly not fit any of NeAnne’s current dimensions.

It did, however, seem to fit him rather well.

As it had the previous few times he’d done this.

Oh God...

Why was he even considering this? It would mean claiming something for himself that he—as part of society as a whole—had so vehemently opposed. The concern of appropriation was nearly as intense as the fear of the change. Did he just want to earn their trust? Was he just trying to escape his guilt, make some meager penance in some misguided attempt to find acceptance? And what if he went through with this, only to find he had placed himself in a position where he could not be accepted on either side?

He looked into the mirror again.

Vy really did like how he looked this way. While he was still utterly uninterested in the idea of having breasts, he was curiously fond of how the corset accentuated his hips.

He turned in the mirror. Looked some more. Adjusted the cheap devil-horn-headband he’d procured on clearance after Halloween had passed. Stood on his toes in the knee high fuzzy socks meant to approximate the typically furrier lower legs of symbionts.

He wiggled his hips a bit and immediately blushed at his own uncharacteristically playful display.

Vy considered what it would be like to have that third-eye on his tail. NeAnne had explained that with practice, she was able to consciously control the ability to see through it; however--while the tail and wings--which she had taken to referring to as “Ne-chan”--tended to exhibit an innocuous and curious independence when she was not actively engaging them, it seemed to more-often reflect her inner feelings, and never imposed the same direct influence that crown crab symbionts felt from their symbiotes. The succubat symbiote, once merged, seemed quite content to operate primarily like a seamlessly integrated third-lobe, only occasionally drifting into a semblance of autonomy.

Then there were the tail-maws; Vy didn’t entertain that thought too long. They seemed to be friendly, but also noisy and potentially troublesome appendages. He wasn’t sure what exactly precipitated their formation over any other tail, but he was fairly certain he’d be incapable of dealing with such a possible nuisance. Looking in the mirror, he tried to imagine a large, toothy-grinned entity protruding from his backside, breathing in his face, drooling, chirping…

...if suddenly finding that he’d sprouted breasts was one of his bigger physical concerns, having some very emotive creature constantly attached to his backside was a close second.

Not that it mattered, of course. He shouldn’t do this, couldn’t. It wasn’t right for him.

He never doubted the intentions of the other symbionts who had willfully joined hives, and he would never question the validity of their choices, but he knew he must be the exception, the outlier; the egotistical, appropriating interloper, inserting himself into a narrative in which he had no business participating? Was his paranoid preoccupation with not wanting to be too feminine—not wanting to suddenly sprout breasts, for example—just evidence of his lack of conviction?

He watched his face fall into a frown in the mirror.

I can't...I just can't...

Perhaps he could do more good for his new acquaintances—friends?—as he was now, anyhow. It wasn’t like he needed to prove himself by taking a succubat--it’d be an empty and insulting gesture if it wasn’t really something meant for him, wouldn’t it? And maybe people would be more willing to listen to impassioned pleas for symbiont-acceptance from someone who fit the asym society's accepted definition of a person...

He sighed aloud, NeAnne's old corset braced against that now too-familiar longing ache in his chest, as though trying to assuage it with a hug. For a moment, he thought of it as being an embrace from the sweet dragoness herself, making the moment even more bittersweet.

He sat on the edge of the bed, glancing back at his reflection occasionally, each time quickly looking away as a flood of emotion threatened to overcome him.


He looked good. He looked silly. He looked like we was trying too hard.

Or like he wasn’t trying hard enough.

Perhaps he could discuss it with one of the symbionts in his social circle? Though, as well as they seemed to get along, and as welcoming as they’d been, he still felt like it’d be too much to ask. But maybe...maybe could he talk about this to NeAnne?

It had almost come circuitously during one of their awkward in-person encounters; Vy not-so-smoothly asking NeAnne if she’d “met anyone” somehow segued into him blurting what was meant to be a joke.

“Maybe I should join-up so I’d have a chance.”

He’d felt his stomach tighten, both in distaste at his own flippancy and for fear of the very idea. NeAnne had looked like she was about to chastise him, but her expression softened.

“You’d be cute,” she had said, with a subdued grin. Then, tilting her head slightly, as if contemplating him, examining, she added, “You might be more you.”

That was as far as the discussion had gone, as they had then both fumbled to change the subject.

She would be visiting later that month to "help" Vy celebrate his birthday. Vy preferred not to make a fuss or even mention the occasion, but NeAnne, the considerate soul that she was—and even despite their recent struggles— refused Vy's entreaties to let the day pass unobserved.

Mentioning it to her—or any of the other symbionts—seemed rude and grotesquely presumptuous, though. He didn't want any of them to waste their time on his perverse musing. They’d dealt with enough already.

“No. No. Fuck that. I’m not inserting myself into their world like that—I’m not going to sully this.”

Vy sucked in a breath and began unfastening the corset. It seemed it had been decided, then; he'd continue as he was, he’d stop entertaining this clearly ridiculous idea—avoiding both the trauma of a drastic change and the consequent ostracism for his garish audacity to hamfistedly associate himself with the symbionts, despite how much they come to mean to him.

He tossed the corset to the ground, shook the horns from his head, and didn’t bother to remove the socks before crawling into the unmade bed, drawing the blanket and sheets around him like a security blanket.

Vy's mind cycled endlessly in a loop of self-effacing thoughts, eroding through his remaining anxious energy until he finally drifted into sleep.