m͏͕a҉l͎e̳͉͕̫ͅ ̭͇ ̶͚̠̞̤i͏̗̞̺͈n̬͇̜̺̺s̥̠̕t̙͓̤̦̣̘ͅi̶̟̰̰̤t̰̭͜u̞̗͠t͎͔ͅe̝͜ ̬͙̮̮̝̖h̪̣̤͍̩e͜r̞̣͟e̳͚͉̟̘̤̙’̰̀s͙ ̠̟̲͖͉a̺̲͖͍͚ ̣̫͟p̬̲̼ḁ͔̹̙p̳͞ḙ͕̖̞r̯͍̣͕̫͈͠ ̡b̝͔e͇͇͙͢a͕̻̭͍̝̕t̴̲̥i̛̹̠͖͙n̤͙g̝͔͖ ̡͉̟h̛̯̥̩e̦͝a͔r̰͎̞͉̙̞̜t̜̮̲̗̹̼͢ ́t҉̻̣o̼̝͡ s̭̹̙̲̝̯͕h̸o͎̘̹̟͙̙͟w̠̹ ͙͖̼̙͉m̶̙̳y̮͍͓ͅ ̘a̷̳̗̹̙̜̻͎f̥̙̣̕f̰̭̗e̠̮̻̞̜̞̹c͔̝͍̙̩͘ţ̘̩̻̜̘i̯o̘̬̭̺̼̗n̛͖ ̻̙̗̣̣͓̞͠
NEW MESSAGE: KRIS
( TEXT )
WOW FUCK YOU
( TEXT )
WHY THE FUCK WOULD YOU TELL ME TO DL FLAPPY BIRD
( TEXT )
THIS IS NOT FUN, THIS IS BULLSHIT AND DEVIL MAGIC WAHT THE ACTUAL FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU
( TEXT )
I THOUGHT WE WERE FRIEND SYOU CUMGUZZLING WH
Selin’s nearly throws his phone at the ground when the virus locks up his screen in the middle of his text message rant, drawing concerned and/or frightened looks from passers-by at the way he’s practically vibrating with anger from his perch on one of the chairs outside the noodle shop.
"What the fuck is this,” he mutters, scanning the message. Male. Institute. Here’s a… ”Aw, shit.” It’s that fucking virus that’s been all over the news. Even as he slumps facedown on the table beside his tower of empty pho bowls, he can already feel his Flappy Bird rage giving way to what he assumes is supposed to be soulmate feels, which apparently for him means really wanting a blowjob. But, like… an affectionate blowjob.
(He also kind of wants to go graffiti the hell out of something, which he doesn’t quite understand, but that’s secondary to the blowjob, mainly because Selin’s dick > destruction of public property.)
With a sigh, he pushes his chair back, stands, and takes off in a blur towards the part of the city with the mountain path that leads to the Brotherhood’s less terrorist-y counterparts.