Chapter 95: 81.1 - Livestream
Hearing all the things Selene said, I couldn’t help but wake up.
Ugh, so annoying, damn it! For f*ck’s sake!
I couldn’t go back to sleep. My eyes were still wide open.
Whatever, might as well just go to the Mind Palace,
I thought, as I activated Transcription and started something that had been my dream since childhood. No, not becoming a doctor. But a live streamer.
Yes, Kairi as a live streaming host is real.
[The following is a first-person inner monologue by me, Kairi Elysia Veylith, recorded entirely in her mental sanctuary as she "listens" to Selene’s chaotic thoughts... in real-time.]
Oh, for the love of all that is holy and unholy, is this really happening right now?
Okay, deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Again. And again. BREATHE, Kairi, BREATHE! Ahem. Hi. Welcome back, welcome back to my totally unplanned, utterly chaotic, and currently very compromising reaction stream. You’re broadcasting live, folks, straight from the deepest, darkest, and apparently most perverted corners of my own brain. I’m your host, Dr. Kairi Veylith, emotionally repressed neurotic extraordinaire, and today, we are collectively, regrettably, reacting to the nightmare fuel that is: "What The Hell Is Going On Inside Selene’s Mind." And for some unfathomable reason, the tagline that immediately popped into my consciousness was: Oh no, she’s hot.
[Insert the most profoundly nervous, utterly unhinged laughter you can imagine, the kind that hints at a rapidly unraveling sanity.]
Guys. Oh, my gods, guys. I swear to every single pantheon, every single cosmic entity, every single forgotten deity in the known multiverse—what in the ever-loving hell did I just subject myself to? Did I... did I just accidentally eavesdrop on the unfiltered, raw, R-rated mental fanservice diary of my senior, Selene? The brilliant, stoic, seemingly untouchable Selene?
Yes. Yes, I absolutely did. And I need someone, anyone, to please, for the love of all that is sacred, unplug me from this cursed Astral Network. This isn’t a livestream anymore. This isn’t a reaction stream. This is, unequivocally, a lewdstream, and I am its unwilling, mortified participant.
Let me set the scene for you, because you deserve to understand the depths of my current existential crisis. I’m sitting here, in the sterile, overly bright recovery ward, still a bit sore, a bit fuzzy, and definitely a lot more irritable from my recent, incredibly inconvenient magic-burnout incident. My magical reserves are drier than a desert in the middle of a drought, and my emotional ones are clearly following suit. So, what’s a convalescing magic-user to do? Apparently, spontaneously tune into Selene’s brainwaves like it’s some sort of premium, no-subscription-required, uncensored Netflix: Chaos Edition.
At first, I genuinely, naively thought, "Oh, how lovely. Selene’s probably deep in thought about her next groundbreaking alchemy project. Maybe she’s pondering over some intricate theoretical framework, or perhaps debating the safest, most efficient way to refine Mytheia without, you know, blowing up half the continent." You know, the usual, boring, incredibly brilliant genius stuff that Selene occupies her magnificent mind with.
Nope.
A resounding, soul-shattering NOPE.
This woman, this paragon of academic excellence, this beacon of magical prowess, is not contemplating grand theories. She is, in fact, composing mental erotica in real-time. And who, you might ask, is the subject of this spontaneous cerebral fanfiction? None other than Azalea. And to add insult to catastrophic mental injury, she’s doing this WHILE GETTING DRESSED.
"Azalea kouhai-kun..." she purred. In her mind. A purr. Who, in the name of all that is rational, purrs internally? Who narrates their own mundane act of pulling on socks in 4K Ultra-HD sensory detail like it’s the most exquisite, slow-burn yuri doujinshi ever conceived?
(And yes, for the record, I read those. Shut up. Don’t judge my coping mechanisms, especially not after this.)
You guys, she even made the SSSSSRRREEET sound effect of the sock stretching and sliding onto her foot. In. Her. Mind. The auditory hallucination, entirely self-generated, was so vivid I swear I heard it in the room. How am I, a mere mortal with a fragile psyche and an already strained recovery, supposed to spiritually survive this level of intimate, unsolicited mental intrusion?
And don’t even, for one single second, get me started on the internal monologue where she, with the casual disdain of a goddess observing lesser beings, literally calls both me and Azalea "two-faced degenerates with secret twisted desires."
...Okay, fine. Valid. She’s not entirely wrong. But still! The sheer audacity!
She called me a sl*t. Not just any sl*t. A "degenerate sl*t," to be exact. And again, in my defense, she’s not entirely wrong. I mean, that one time in the field clinic, with the questionable quality gin and the half-remembered anatomy diagrams... look, let’s just say there were extenuating circumstances. Okay, yeah, never mind. You win this round, Selene.
BUT. And this is a very significant BUT. That does not, under any circumstances, give her a free pass to narrate her mental striptease like she’s auditioning for some forbidden side quest in a deeply inappropriate visual novel! My brain is not a public theatre for your inner fantasies, Selene!
Let’s talk about the sudden, jarring, utterly whiplash-inducing personality pivot. One second, her internal voice is all measured and calculating, like: "Hmm, should I tease her just a little?" And the very next, it’s a full-throttle, maximum overdrive, blush-inducing seduction queen, complete with full, perfectly choreographed sensual movements that somehow translated into my mind. I tell you, it was a whole performance. A mental burlesque.
And I felt that. Not physically, thank the stars – I am very much not Azalea, and my physical proximity to this mental ordeal is precisely zero – but metaphysically? Existentially? As someone who, in a previous, deeply embarrassing life phase, once awkwardly dissected an emotional support golem while nursing a deeply inappropriate crush on their mentor? Yeah. Yeah, I get it. The sheer, overwhelming, unbidden desire to just... inflict emotional torment through pure, unadulterated hotness.
...Also, did she just... fantasize about traumatizing Azalea into submission via aesthetic overload? Is that what I just witnessed? Because if it is, that’s not just your run-of-the-mill gay panic. That, my friends, is full-blown gay warfare. And Azalea is on the front lines, utterly oblivious.
The moment, the precise, soul-shattering moment she opened her legs for that subliminal, H-rated, panty-less pantheon display in her mind, I screamed. Out loud. In real life. A nurse, bless her patient soul, actually came rushing in.
"Are you okay, Ms. Veylith?" she asked, her voice laced with concern, probably thinking I was having some sort of post-magic-burnout delusion.
"I-I’m fine," I whispered, barely able to contain the sheer tidal wave of shame and secondhand embarrassment that threatened to drown me. "Just... just a particularly vivid... mind-reading... live horror show. Nothing to worry about." She gave me a look that clearly said she was adding "mental instability" to my chart.
And then. OH MY GOD. AND THEN. The very next thought that rippled through her mind, clear as a bell, was: "Kairi can still read my mind, right?"
YOU BET I CAN, YOU UNHOLY VIXEN. She knows. She absolutely knows I’m here. She’s not just having these thoughts; she’s performing them. She wants me to react. She’s actively baiting me, dangling these profoundly uncomfortable mental images like I’m some emotionally constipated catgirl and she just bought a brand-new, extra-bright laser pointer.
So, what do I do? Do I react? Do I scream into the void? Do I somehow project my own mortification back into her brilliant, deranged mind?
Hell yes, I do. In my head, I’m screaming. A primal, guttural shriek of pure, unadulterated agony and a sliver of unwilling fascination. IRL, though? I’m just biting the inside of my cheek so hard I might actually draw blood, trying desperately not to pass out from secondhand embarrassment and, I begrudgingly admit, possibly a tiny, tiny bit of secondhand arousal?
Maybe I am a degenerate sl*t. Maybe this is my just punishment for... existing near her. Maybe we all are. Maybe we all deserve this particular brand of mental torment.
And then, as if to seal my fate, as if to plunge the final, gleaming dagger into the last vestiges of my sanity, she thought: "You may call me by my name directly, you know."
You may call me by my name directly.
HELLO?! THIS IS NOT A ROMANCE VISUAL NOVEL! YOU DO NOT JUST DROP THE "call me by my name" LINE LIKE YOU’RE ABOUT TO FREAKING PROPOSE AFTER A SINGLE, UNWILLINGLY WITNESSED MENTAL STRIPTEASE! That’s a classic, end-game, confession-scene line! What is she playing at?!
...Unless?
No. Bad Kairi. No scenarios. No simulations. No hidden kiss CG unlocks. Reboot. Reboot your brain. Clear the cache. This is a medical emergency.
In conclusion, this stream, this utterly unplanned, psychologically damaging stream, is officially over. I’m logging out. I’m locking my neural interface, throwing away the metaphysical key, and possibly burying it in a lead-lined box at the bottom of the Mariana Trench.
Selene, you win. You have successfully achieved peak mental perversion. I hope you are ecstatically happy with your perfectly executed, profoundly disturbing powerplay performance.
And Azalea? My poor, sweet, oblivious Azalea? Stay strong, soldier. You are not alone in this inexplicable, deeply unsettling war. The enemy is... within. And she’s hot.
This has been Kairi Elysia Veylith, signing off from the digital ether, probably to go rethink all my life choices.
End stream.
