Mental masculinization Reclusive college student Shiori Tsukuyomi episode1 (Patreon)

Her room was dim, a sliver of light slicing through the curtain's gap, illuminating specks of dust suspended in the air. Snack wrappers and empty cans littered the floor, while the pale glow of her laptop screen flickered atop the disheveled bed. Lying facedown, she scrolled blankly through social media on her phone, strands of unkempt hair falling over her face. Several buttons of her pajamas had come undone, exposing the curve of her chest—not that she noticed, or cared.

"Ah… It's morning already…"

She murmured it into the silence, feeling the gnaw of hunger in her stomach but lacking the will to even sit up. There had to be leftover pizza in the fridge—but frankly, microwaving it seemed like effort. Instead, she stretched a sluggish hand toward a chocolate bar on her nightstand, the crinkling of the wrapper unnaturally loud in the stillness.

"Mm. This is fine."

The sweetness spread over her tongue, but it barely registered beyond routine. On her laptop, an unfinished assignment file glared back at her, its deadline long past. She eyed it sidelong before sighing.

"Whatever. Doubt the teacher even remembers."

Excuses came easier than action these days. She dropped her phone again, only for notifications to catch her eye—unread messages from Mom. Always the same questions: "How are you?" "How’s school?" "Answer me, sweetheart." She marked them read without reply. The energy to type a response, the courage to be honest… somewhere along the way, she’d lost both.

Beside her bed leaned a mirror. Haphazardly, she caught her reflection: the slip of pale skin beneath rumpled pajamas, messy hair, and hollow eyes. There was someone brighter staring back once—at least, she thought so.

"Ugh… I can't."

Groaning, she flopped facedown and tugged the blanket over her head, as if shutting out the room could shut out the world, could shut out herself. The cycle would just repeat. Again. And yet—just before sleep dragged her under—a flicker of something wrapped around her chest.

Maybe tomorrow would be different.

Maybe.

She sat on the edge of her bed, curling into herself—knees hugged to her chest, chin resting atop them. In the dim light of her room, her thoughts began to churn, slow and thick like stagnant water.

The laptop screen had gone dark. No notifications buzzed on her phone. Silence pressed in, heavy enough to make her ears ring.

"…What am I even doing?"

How many months had it been since she left university? At first, it was just a break—just catching her breath. The stress would fade. She’d bounce back. But then the walls of her room became the borders of her world, day and night blurring into one, conversations reduced to the occasional grunt to the delivery guy at the door.

"…Was there ever a time I actually enjoyed things?"

High school came to mind—laughing with friends, plucking at bass strings in the light music club. Even early university had its moments: joining clubs, picking up part-time work, the thrill of newness. But somewhere along the way, everything became exhausting.

"…What went wrong?"

She didn’t know. One day, the emptiness just swallowed her whole, stealing even the energy to get out of bed. People became terrifying. Messages piled up, ignored until they stopped coming at all.

"…Is this really okay?"

No. She knew it wasn’t. But the first step forward felt impossible. Outside was too loud. People were too much. Failure was inevitable.

"…What should I even do?"

Her cheek pressed into the crook of her arm, skin warm against skin. Her body was here, solid, real—so why did her mind feel like it was floating somewhere far away?

A flicker of movement. Her reflection in the mirror caught her eye—tangled black hair, dull eyes, the hem of her hoodie stretched out of shape.

"…I’m pathetic."

The words slipped out before she could stop them. She collapsed back onto the bed, thoughts scattering. No answers. No solutions. Just sleep, and another day gone.

That’s fine.

(It wasn’t.)

But somewhere, buried deep, a whisper:

"…Help."

Who could? She couldn’t even help herself.

She closed her eyes. In the end, the only conclusion she reached, curled up like this, was simple:

Nothing would change. Today would end the same way it always did.

Wrapped in her blanket, her gaze drifted aimlessly to the ceiling. In the dim room, memories spread slowly across her mind—like oil seeping across the surface of water.

"…Everything—it’s all because of this body."

High school. The stares from boys as she walked to class. The way her uniform blouse only emphasized the curves she wished she could hide. The hushed, vulgar remarks that followed her down the hallway: “Damn, those things are huge.” A droplet fell—ripples distorting the reflection of the past.

"I never even wanted their attention…"

University was worse. A drunk senior at a club party, slinging an arm around her shoulder with a whisper of "You’ve got killer assets." The part-time job manager who called her the "shop’s poster girl" while his hands lingered where they shouldn’t. Every time she pulled away, their offended scoff: “Can’t even take a joke?”

"Even the friends I thought I had…"

The cruelest shift came from the girls she’d once been close with. Their eyes grew colder, comments more pointed—“Shiori-san, you’re always so popular with boys.” The day she overheard their whispers in the hall: “She’s totally flaunting it on purpose, right?”

Unconsciously, she pressed down on her own chest, fingers sinking into the softness. Living, breathing proof of what trapped her—

"…I never asked for this."

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Probably another email from her mom—the only person still clinging to concern. That kindness, too, felt like a weight now.

"…Is it my fault?"

The real reason she shut herself away: this body, this curse that twisted every interaction. The stress of being seen as nothing more than that. The jealousy from women who couldn’t—wouldn’t—understand. It was all exhausting. What other choice did she have?

Outside, the sound of rain. She closed her eyes.

"…What if I had a different body?"

A fleeting thought. But for just that moment—she almost felt lighter.

The air behind her, still curled over her knees, distorted.

Black mist seeped through the gap in the window—thick, alive—writhing like smoke with purpose. She hadn’t noticed yet, her eyes still downcast, thin fingers absently tracing the swell of her own chest.

"…Nn?"

Then—an unnatural chill slithered up her nape. Cold enough to sting, as if glacial fingertips were dragging themselves up her spine. She shivered, twisting to look—but nothing was there. Just the air, unnaturally thick, clinging to her skin like damp film.

"…Weird. Did it get colder?"

She tugged her hood deeper over her head, hugging her knees tighter. But then—a prickling numbness crept up her toes. Like paralysis in slow motion. Her breath hitched as she glanced down—

"…Eh?"

For a split second, her legs looked blackened, tainted by something unnatural. She blinked—it was gone. Maybe just her eyes playing tricks, but before she could even process it—

Pain.

A blade of ice stabbed through her abdomen.

"Hya—?!"

She lurched forward with a gasp, hands flying to clutch her stomach. Beneath her fingers—something squirmed. A visceral pulse, like trapped worms writhing under flesh. Frantic, she yanked up her hoodie—but the skin was still pale, unmarked.

"What’s… happening…?"

Her breathing came short, heart slamming against her ribs so hard she could feel it in her throat. Then—

A jolt like electricity split down her spine.

Her pupils dilated.

A soft sigh—almost relieved—escaped her lips as the shadows swallowed her whole.

"Ah… nn…"

The edges of her vision wavered, as if she were sinking underwater. Sounds grew muffled, distant. A creeping, foreign sensation—like someone else's thoughts bleeding into her own.

(—What a cute body.)

"——!?"

Her eyes flew open. She heard it. Clear as a voice whispered directly into her skull. But the room was empty. That wasn’t her own thought—it was someone else’s, echoing inside her head.

"Who…?"

Her voice trembled, unanswered.

The silence that followed was worse than any reply.

Her vision sharpened unnaturally—every detail amplified. Her own hands moved without her permission, fingers hooking into the hem of her hoodie and dragging it upward. The texture of fabric between her fingers, the whisper of cloth against skin—all of it painfully distinct.

"…Eh?"

Her mind raced. She wanted to stop, but her body wouldn’t obey. Like someone else had hijacked her nerves. The hoodie lifted to her ribs, exposing pale skin—and the pink lace underwear beneath. Cold air licked her thighs, goosebumps rising in its wake.

"St…opp—"

The plea died in her throat as her gaze was forced downward against her will.

——There.

Undeniably her body—yet it felt like she was seeing it for the first time. The pink lace dug into the plush flesh of her thighs, the curves beneath strangely, obscenely soft. She’d picked those panties herself, so why did it feel like she was staring at some stranger’s lingerie?

(…My body…?)

Her traitorous thumb hooked under the lace, peeling it down—exposing more. The sensation of being watched burned hotter. Like staring at her own reflection, yet detached, as if observing from behind glass.

"Ah…"

Her thighs quivered. A warmth pooled low in her stomach, unfamiliar yet undeniable. Her breath grew shallow, heartbeat erratic.

(Why… can’t I move? Why am I—watching this?)

Her rational mind screamed in protest while her body betrayed her, heating under invisible scrutiny. The fabric at her center felt damp.

(…I don’t— I wouldn’t—)

Thoughts tangled into nonsense. Her body wasn’t hers anymore. And somehow, somewhere—

It terrified her how good that felt.

Her vision remained pinned—forced to watch as her hoodie stayed bunched beneath her ribs, pink lace panties fully exposed. It was her body, yet it felt like admiring another woman’s, the violation carving deep into her sense of self.

(What… is this?)

Her thighs burned. Dampness genuinely bloomed under the thin fabric—her body, the one she’d hated, was responding without her. The contradiction left her dizzy.

(My chest… so pretty.)

Her gaze drifted upward, unwanted. The plush weight spilling inside her hoodie, the hint of cleavage where the fabric gaped. The wrongness of evaluating herself through a man’s lens send a shiver down her spine.

(Want to touch…)

Her fingers twitched. Still no control—just the torturous hyper-awareness of being watched. Heat curled deeper between her legs, pulsing in time with her heartbeat.

(I’m… a girl.)

The body she’d despised suddenly felt precious. The softness of her thighs, the dip of her waist, the fullness of her chest—all of it was for them. Just that thought stoked the fire wetter.

(Ah… embarrassing… but more—)

Her breath hitched. The lace dug into her skin, a sharper bite than usual. Like male desire was infecting her, twisting arousal into something grotesque and delicious.

A flicker in the mirror: flushed face, disheveled hoodie, panties peeled just so. Like something from a porno. The thought sent heat straight to her core.

(I… really have a body this lewd…?)

Confusion warred with giddiness, discovering a sexiness she’d never noticed before. The fabric clinged obscenely now, damp through. She ached to touch, but her hands weren’t hers yet.

(Ah… fucking— move—)

The intoxicating clash—male hunger, female flesh—twisting together into something new. The body she loathed was transforming into something made for pleasure, and God—

She was drowning in it.

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