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.
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.
"Mocha Chocolate Cake"
'He just wants you to feel better down here.'
Word Count: 1,000
Pairing: Mocha!Killer x Self-Insert
AU Co-Created with: @aestheticallycha0tic
There's an obnoxiously loud creak in this obnoxiously loud and creaky bed I'm all toasty and bundled and nicely previously asleep in, which... this racket is a green flag of a sign, actually!
Better someone climbing into my bed than hearing a horribly angry and hungry alien roaring me awake.
My... 'companion' shuffles ever nearer to press against my side, slowly draping his arm across my stomach as if he thinks those creaks somehow didn't wake me.
His heavy arm is lain, and I feel the ends of his claws lightly prod and grab at my shirt there. Fidgeting.
I was relatively okay in a 'whatever' sense with these happenings up until he got explorative and dipped his middle and ring claws just underneath my top to press those first knuckles into the give of my skin.
The involuntary and sharp intake of breath I couldn't prevent let him know that I was awake.
…
"hey."
And another awful creak as he sits up to try peering over at my face from behind. I meet his gaze from over my shoulder.
He's looming above me. Directly enough over my face for a drip of his tears to fall and hit my cheek. His stare follows the liquid as it begins to trail down my face, and then he raises his claws to carefully wipe it from my face with the pad of his thumb.
I get very lightly scratched by mistake, but it was so gentle that it was really more of an itch than anything.
But another one just drips, this time onto the very corner of my lips. That one prompts me to finally make a move, immediately wiping it off just inside my shirt before it could get into my mouth.
…And then a third drip onto the collar of my shirt. Okay, he needs to MOVE.
Mocha allows me to push him off, which he takes gracefully by getting off the bed, adjusting a… very large backpack that he had apparently been wearing this whole time.
I track him as he drifts to the other side of the room to the conjoined office desks he's made his workspace, delicately dropping the bag onto the only relatively clean part of his area.
I'm… incapable of following what he's been working on. That was never a department I was employed in or was authorized to even be around.
He tells me he's making progress in finding a way out. I suppose I'm just.. going to have to trust in him? What else can I do but die somewhere?
It's just a whole entire mess—that half of the room. And it's not even a quarter of all components and items and things he's found. There's other nearby rooms within this sector that he uses as storage, and one of those being a kitchen.
Speaking of food, I should probably get to it and figure out dinner for us. It's… just something to do. Being stuck in here is numbing.
We've got canned food to last long enough for me to mentally prepare myself for the eventuality that we're going to HAVE to eat the aliens sometime soon.
The bed creaks with my leaving, and then it creaks again with someone else climbing in.
I turn in time to see Mocha reach for the end of my sleeve where he's sat up and stretching over the mattress to get to me. He hooks his claws into the fabric to tug.
His expression is strained just enough for me to point it out.
"uh—stay?"
…I try to pull away with a half-step backward, and he lets me. "I was going to make dinner."
"i already made you something."
…? Huh?
He points behind him to his desk, and sitting where he previously dumped his bag is a… styrofoam plate of a slice of chocolate cake??
What?
How did he get this? Is it something he made, or found?
I wander over to his desk to get a better look—because this is almost unbelievable—and he follows just behind, signified by the bed's creak and the taps of his clawed hind feet.
…It looks freakishly good. It's not freshly made, but looks like it was frozen, which means it's safe to eat.
He reaches around me to place a notebook and a small handful of drawing utensils down beside the cake, "got you these, too."
…
These are mine. This notebook and these pens and pencils are MINE. He was able to safely get into the residence sector?!
He speaks low from behind me, "i wanted to grab more, but i got chased out. i didn't want to get blood everywhere in yer room.
"we can go back together later tomorrow—"
I cut him off with arms tight around his middle, pressing the side of my head against his ribcage.
…He hugs me back after a long beat, carding a clawed hand through the hair on the back of my head.
I think I regret sharing the cake with him. I could've gone for a whole entire thing of it—half a slice was not nearly enough to sate the ravenous sweet tooth that gazing upon it gave me.
Outside of gratefulness, it felt fitting to give him some. It was a chocolate cake, and I nicknamed him after mocha syrup.
It's a little funny.
Or, maybe not really that funny? Who's to say. It's hard to stay of reasonable mind down here.
…I tilt my head to the left to look at him again, peacefully asleep and comfortably bundled under the covers with me.
He knocked out while holding onto and cuddling with my arm, face pressed into my shoulder all like a clinging child, except he's 6'8".
This particular bedtime situation is okay. I don't need my left arm.
The glow of his squared, spiraling red and black Soul gives off plenty of light to draw.
…
He's a very decent muse. I hope he never looks inside my book.
