more 2nd person practice. i can do better and know what i want to work on next to improve, but for now im just getting comfortable with it. engraving the basics into my head. Hoping to make the next one much more immersive.
This is a self-insert short on a new AU my friend and I made, Chemistry². It may require context to be understood, which can be found here.
"Green Peas and Cuddles"
'Mocha holds you close as you make dinner.'
Word Count: 1,000
Pairing: Mocha!Killer x Self-Insert
AU Co-Created with: @aestheticallycha0tic
The kitchen is comically small for a cafeteria that can seat forty.
Two stovetops and two fridges beside each other (with a buffer counter), a walk-in freezer in the other corner, prep island table, and a standard three-set sink on the remaining wall.
Littering nearly every possible surface is genuinely anything edible you both could find.
Four total kitchens and break rooms raided, plus somewhere Mocha does not want to talk about—you two are good in terms of bland ass meals.
The kitchen's a safe space for you, and has enough stock to avoid needing to eat aliens for at least a while.
…Awhile enough for you to get over the fear of eventually needing to eat alien meat.
This space can comfortably fit two employees, or uncomfortably a third if need-be.
You're by yourself, though. Mocha is asleep. An afternoon nap—a rarity for him—leaving you to your devices.
Dinner.
Your front, considerably heated by the long-since turned on stovetop you're standing directly in front of, is probably your one comfort right now. The heat is pleasant.
Surrounded all else by the stable and unchanging and maddeningly chilly 68 degrees Fahrenheit, double-troubled with a frigid false humidity in the air from all large vents, and all you have to your name is a button-up and some slacks.
You have clothes. You do. But getting to them is an impossibility—a suicide. The Residence Sector you called a depressing 'home' is overrun.
So... a button-up, slacks, what you hope is a will to actually live through this, and soup(?).
A box of refrigerated, processed chicken broth, a can of green peas, salt, and a... small bottle of what you THINK is lemon juice in some other language packaging.
You can't read this thing, but the context clues and a small sip of a taste test reminds you two of lemon.
You can only hope there's nothing else in this. You're not the one that took the taste test, after all. Mocha did. He had made a face, which... He just straight up does not do. He only has ONE expression. So, uh.. yeah that's likely lemon.
The… 'soup(?)' isn't looking too appetizing, but it's better than the alternative of starving or eating aliens.
You'd prefer to have made something with the nicer things you two have, but alas, you must ration and be very careful.
Chicken broth and green peas is going to have to do it for tonight.
A warmth behind you now, too, "what's that, chicken broth and green peas?"
In the second it takes for your brain and body to respond in kind to Mocha's jumpscare of an appearance, you belatedly flinch forward to the hot stove and boiling water.
Your first reflex is to splay out your hand to catch yourself on the burner.
Mocha's first reflex is to protect you.
Instead of the burn that you were expecting and sadly accepting, you get a startlingly tight squeeze around your waist and then pulled backward.
Lifted off your feet an inch or two and.. held there in the air for a moment, your back pressed against his chest as you two take a frozen second to process what had just happened.
You know it's not the heat of the boiling soup making your face warm and bright red, given it's now far away, but you blame it regardless for your undeniably flushed and embarrassed face.
There's a low and mocking cackle quiet against the back of your head, of which only serves to make your cheeks impossibly warmer.
He lets go of you, with an exception of the end of his tail, which has wound its way around your ankle in a hardly-there clutch.
It would have been a comforting pressure if he weren't being a little shit.
Mocha looks nothing but smug and elated, empty eyesockets almost bright with mirth, cheeks stretched in a loud smile that scrunches his lids, and a pink-ish hue dusts his expression in an all-too-thrilled highlight.
He enjoyed your expense way too much, thinking you're just the cutest thing.
"you good, pretty angel?"
…
You awkwardly return to stirring your soup before it bubbles over, ignoring his question. Yes, you are good and he did save your ass, but he doesn't need to know any of that.
His face relaxes and shoulders ease as he slots himself right back into your space, pressed to your back, and chin atop your head while his arms drape and snake over your shoulders to down your chest, immediately fidgeting with the end of your tie.
You keep stirring. Obsessively, almost, in your intense efforts to ignore how he's making you feel.
Mocha is both a comfort and a nuisance. A comfort in the sense that he is the only other friendly face here, your savior on several accounts, and again the only person here.
Your heart's demand for physical touch and connection in this solitary hellscape is crazy, overriding how much you dislike him.
And he's just watching you stir the soup to death, donning a lazy smile. His grip rapidly becoming more of a sleepy ragdoll now that he's comfortable on you.
You slow down, snapping back into it after you catch yourself almost spilling the thing with how much strength you were mixing the pot with.
"…Do you want a taste? To see if it's any decent."
He grumbles a hum at that, leaning a little harder into you like he can't possibly feel close enough, "nah, no point in wastin'. i'll eat when i'm hungry."
And he feels the same way about comfort. You're all he has.
He just wants to hold you like this.
…You're not all too against it.
You put some weight against him, too, leaning back. You can feel the hum in his throat, and then the hum of his Soul.
Mocha can stay like this for as long as he wants to. And you hope it's for a long time. The touch is nice.
KITTYYYY ILY OMG 😭😭❤️
