Moving Through A Crack In The Wall (OC x Reader)

2 -That Breath Was A Little Bit Of A Mistake

[CONTENT WARNING: This chapter contains fairly descriptive depictions of body horror.]

    As you begin to approach him, your features start to shift. Your hair is long, straight, fine and brown, just as effortlessly boring as any other white woman's, and your face is gentle but still just as forgettable as before. That's not to say you even are a woman, in fact you pride yourself on being just about everything as once. Frankly, that confidence is what you deserve.

    You step closer to him, but find yourself stopping in your tracks, a sharp pain pulsing in your chest... you feel your flesh begin to stretch and your bones crack and rearrange in your torso, and in the horror of it all you dash away to where your anonymously admired cannot see you, keeling over in an alleyway nearby as your body contorts in a horrific but oddly familiar fashion. You grow a third arm smack dab in the middle of your chest, the hand of it poking out of the collars of your plain black long-sleeved shirt and the grey virgin killer sweater you so eccentrically paired it with. It's an outfit you've been making work just fine, although you're not sure how you'll have to alter it to fit your new... growth. In the meantime, you just fold your new arm and shimmy it so it fits between your breasts, pressing on the bent flesh and bone until it shifts again and looks less apparent. There's no way he's gonna notice it, and it doesn't hurt enough for you to have to make a scene about it anyways.

    Getting over your embarrassing change of form, you take a deep breath and march out of the alley, back towards the little table he's sitting at. There's two seats... the world is your cafe table and this striking, masked young man is simply sitting at it waiting to be flirted with. And flirt with him you will, you think, as you approach him. He hears your footsteps and sees you coming, setting down his drink and pulling down his mask as he turns to face you. You take in a breath and...

    In your panic, you blurt out something terribly embarrassing, in the slickest tone you can manage nonetheless.

    "Hey, hot stuff, you look like you... fuck demons." In response to your horrid attempt at flirting, he at first looks at you quizzically, and you clam up like a violinist who just broke their bow mid-performance. You mouth out a few meaningless half-words and awkwardly continue, as if your sorry excuse for a shitty one-liner can be saved somehow. "I mean, uh... haha, LOL, so do I." Did you just say LOL out loud?

    He continues to stare at you and nearly pierces your soul with his gaze, glaring through your red eyes, and just when you think you're going to get the verbal beatdown of the century-- he starts to giggle.

    "Don't tell me there's a sort of look for that kind of person," he replies, the laughter still escaping him as he does. When he speaks, it's as if God's own voice has carefully traveled from the heavens to your ear-- it's smooth and melodic, just a bit high, and softly secretive in a way you can't pinpoint. It excites your very soul and makes your face redden just a touch, but you can reign it in, the experienced frequently-horny-person that you are. He continues to speak as you collect yourself in front of him.

    "Nonetheless, what's it to you? Perhaps I entertain myself with intimacies beyond what the human touch can provide... perhaps I don't, perhaps I'm just entertaining idiocy here."  He's so eloquent, it already drives you insane. "Though I guess it wouldn't hurt to be candid with someone who shares the trait with me," he whispers, adding fuel to the enamored fire in your spirit. You can't believe that somehow this line worked. The confidence that his replies boost you with gives you just enough gall to sit down at the table with him. 

    "I guess I just have a good eye for good taste," you reply to him, rared and ready to say less embarrassing things than before. "And yes, there is totally a look to that kind of person."

    "The only taste I can think of is your breath, actually. Good god--" his statement shocks you out of your romantic mood as he pulls a tin of altoids from his backpack and slides them across the table to you. "Fuck, keep the whole thing." He laughs again, and although it feels non-judgemental, you're still embarrassed. "Just don't make my 'look' too obvious to anyone else..."

    "Is... is it that bad?" You can't even keep up the bit about demon fuckers, you have to exhale a breath into your hand and you nearly gag when you sniff it back. Taco Bell. Last night's Taco Bell.  You literally forgot to brush your own teeth last night. You can't get bitches when you've got halitosis, man, those are mutually exclusive things! You pop a mint to save face and pocket the tin as you suck on the little thing.

    "I think you could tell me. I don't know... exactly what is is, what you ate, but you ought to be a little more conscious, I think..."

    "Eugh... sorry."

    "Don't worry too much about it. Even if that's kind of gross."  His reassurance makes you feel a little bit better, but not much. At least he hasn't mentioned your choice of sweater-and-shirt combo. He checks his phone as you avoid looking at him. "Hm... I've got to go, sorry..."  Before you can even stop him, he stands up and slings his bag over his shoulder. "It was quite nice to meet you, though, I would've gotten you coffee if you caught me a little earlier."

    "I, um, it was-- yeah, it was great, dude." He passes you by so abruptly and starts to walk away, but as he leaves, he stops and turns to face you for a moment.

    "Oh... I didn't get your name."

    "Um... Y/N."

    "That doesn't even sound like a name."

    "Y/N is totally a name!"

    "It's two letters and a slash."  He leaves, stunning you more than he had in the several times during your conversation-- so much so that you can't even mouth out the fact that he never gave you his own name back, and you don't even have the courage to call after him. What the hell is he playing at, misinterpreting your name with such a serious tone... It's not "Y/N," it's Y/N, and you can't tell if he genuinely heard something else or if he's just fucking with you-- and he's gone! He told you your name, which wasn't even your name, wasn't real, and now you're-- among other things, back to being flustered. Y/N 0, weird-ass masked hottie 1. You need to do go do something, anything, probably to calm your nerves, after whatever that was.

    You take the tin of altoids back out of your pocket and stare at it. It looks oddly pristine. You try to wrap your head around that man's words as you gaze at it, before pocketing it again. You never let go of the damn thing, for some reason... it just makes you feel connected to him, somehow.

    You head off to the first place that comes to mind...