Hey!
So I know KPop Demon Hunters is so new but I was hoping you’d write for them?
I love Abby, and my ask would be could you do a soft Abby? He is all muscles hard exterior, but for his partner he could be soft with them. I know he is a gentleman, as all the boys are, he walks on the outside of the sidewalk, he opens doors, etc. But with his partner he holds them while they cry (or go through a panic attack, don’t at me for self indulging), cries with them while watching sad movies, and is just a goofball while cooking with them.
Thank you!! ❤️❤️
Bestie, the fact that we both watched the movie and DIDN'T REALIZE IT?!?!?! Even better knowing we are both OBSESSED WITH IT?! I knew we were besties for a reason. These ideas are PERFECT for a set of headcanons!! I hope you love them!!
Are You the One?
Pairing: Abby x F!Reader Warnings: domestic bliss, fluff, hurt-comfort, kissing, slight angst, panic attack, claustrophobia, recovery, cooking Summary: A set of headcanons depicting what it would be like to date the one and only Abby of Saja Boys.
Disclaimer: I highly recommend having seen Cloud Atlas before watching this as it is the movie Abby cries watching with reader.
Read on ao3 - Main Writing Masterlist - 6.5k words
You had a bad day at work and an even worse transit home. When you boarded the train along with everyone else hoping for a swift trip at the end of the day, an announcement blurted over the intercom. A droning mechanical inflection spelling everyone’s sordid fate. The particular railway that takes you straight to your apartment is out of order due to an undisclosed cause, forcing all who boarded to walk right back off. You didn’t anticipate a different route home, unfamiliar with the destinations of the remaining arrivals. It’s only a couple miles. You begrudgingly decide to walk the distance despite the forming blisters on your ankles, feeling a stinging agony in each step. You hiss and gasp every few steps, resorting to walk on your tip-toes for a bit before you realize you must look ridiculous.
Distracted, you stop at the corner of a crosswalk to lean on a traffic light, slipping your heel out of your laced-up sneaker. The fit is tight enough that it won’t fall off while simultaneously relieving the direct pressure of your shoe on your blister. You repeat the action with your opposite shoe, sighing in relief when you are able to take a step and not recoil from the pain. The wind is lightly hitting the wounds, soothing them with its draft.
You smush the frame of your shoe with every step, knowing they will be wrinkled and warped later, but you don’t care. When you finally start to feel at ease, a deep and seductive voice from beside you warrants your attention. “You’ll ruin those if you keep walking in them like that.”
You know that voice. Glancing around, you cannot make out the direction it came from, almost like the thought popped up in your own mind. Your head is on a swivel, but you’re at a loss; everyone around you is walking unbothered with their eyes glued to the ground or their phone screens.
“They might already be a lost cause.” The voice echoes in your ears with no culprit in sight.
“But my blisters…” You respond in your own thoughts, defeated that you have to disclose something so woefully embarrassing to this phantom articulation.
Within the same instant you finish this explanation, a broad and protective arm is draped over your shoulder, manually shifting your placement away from the bustling streetside with a familiar buffer keeping you that much further away from the zooming cars passing by. It’s such a commanding motion, you have little say over where you are being led next. You’re not objecting though, comfortable in his grasp, confirmed by the smell of his cologne. You breathe it in, tropical and floral notes of ripe mango and orchid blossoms.
“What are you doing here?” You whisper to him lowly, peeking at his obscured form shrouded by the black hood. The hand that holds you has darkened extended claws spreading from his cotton sleeve. His eyes glow in shadow, slitted by the setting sun but no less out of focus as he scans every silhouette in the vicinity. Those violet patterns leave sharp impressions down his face that resemble thorns. One bad slip and a mob of obsessive fans would appear in an instant. You question his appearance, wondering what would possess him to put himself at risk to simply walk you home.
“I was in the neighborhood.” He tells you, his gravelly cadence monotone and rich with allure. His feet sync up with yours, seamlessly dodging every obstacle in your path while cutting the remaining distance in half with his expeditious control.
You can’t be certain of it, but it feels like between every few steps, you’re quite literally gliding on air. He yields your weight, skipping through effortlessly. The laws of physics do not apply to him. The fluttering nervousness in your stomach is either a result of the subtle shift in gravitational forces or your billowing anxieties. At this moment, you cannot tell.
You hate to admit it, but you love it when he does this. He’s only ventured out and found you a handful of times before, each one more random and unexpected than the last, yet he always appears when you need him most.
In no time, you’re at the entrance of your towering apartment building. The sun has dipped farther out of sight, the skies bathed in the very same violet as his markings. Once the adrenaline of the walk has worn off, his fangs recede and the fire in his eyes extinguishes. The glimmer of patterns disappear and his faux human skin tone returns to the surface, replacing the pastel indigo.
“You didn’t have to do that.” While adjusting the bag on your shoulder, you tuck your heels together to hide them with the breadth of your pants.
“I know.” A small tuft of his magenta hair sways in front of his eyes as he smiles at you, taking a single step out of your space but still close enough that his chiseled form lies less than an arm’s reach away. “I wanted to.”
“Do you maybe wanna to come up for a bit?” The proposal is hopeful, and you shrink slightly at the furrow of his brow and shake of his head. He tucks his large hands into his pockets, sullen to deny your wishes.
“I don’t know.” He admits sincerely but with a scheming tone. “I really wish I could, but I should have headed back over an hour ago.”
“An hour?!” You exclaim mutedly, shocked he’s still standing here talking with you. “Don’t let me get you into trouble.”
“Hm.” He scoffs aloud, pulling a hand out of his pocket to stroke your hair. Wearing a charming smirk, he draws you in close by the nape of your neck, using his thumb to lift your chin so that he can kiss you. His irises flash with that golden twinkle, displaying his demon side for a split second. “Not possible. I make my own trouble.”
He steps forward and reaches for the handle to your apartment building, opening the door for you.
“What are you doing?” You ask as he implores you to enter the building. “I thought you were expected an hour ago.”
“If I’m gonna get into trouble, might as well make it worth it.” He shows you inside, following closely to spend the night in your apartment.
~~~
“This is stupid.” Abby knows what quote-unquote “girly” movies entail; mushy heartfelt scenes, tissues for sopping up tears. He’s over it all before you even hit play.
“I’m watching it.” You scroll through to find the movie in question, hovering over it for a few seconds as he continues to rant and rave.
“I’m not.” Abby rolls his eyes, standing up from the cushioned sofa.
“Fine.” You click the movie and the screen goes black to welcome the opening credits. “I’ve been waiting all summer for this to come out.”
“What is it even about?” Abby circles the sofa, leaning on the back of it while you settle in comfortably.
“It’s kind of a long concept, but the theme is reincarnation. I think.” You rack your brain to harness the memory of the trailer when you watched it. “At least, how love survives through space and time.”
“That sounds dumb.” He continues, letting up on the back of the sofa to stand up straight.
“Will you let me just enjoy this in peace?” The opening credits come to a close, welcoming the first scene of the movie.
“I’m gonna get a snack.” He departs for the kitchen. “Have fun with your sappy film.”
“I will!” You snuggle up on the sofa, a blanket in your lap and a steaming mug of your favorite hot drink in both hands.
You’re about two-thirds of the way through it when he returns, a bowl of popcorn being placed on the coffee table in front of you as a peace offering. The movie is going on a lot longer than he expected, and he’d rather not admit he’s feeling lonely due to your lack of attention. He has no desire to watch the movie, but something catches his eye that he didn’t expect to see.
“Is that supposed to be Seoul?” He recognizes the silhouette of the metropolitan skyline depicting the capital and largest city in South Korea.
“Yeah.” You nod in confirmation while taking a couple pieces of popcorn. “In the dystopian future.”
“It’s under water.” He’s perplexed by its darkened and grim appearance, a city he knows and loves now altered by soulless oppression and uniformity.
“The world is ending.” You’re fully involved with the movie by now, slightly put off by all his questions, but you correct yourself when you realize he’s actually displaying interest.
“Pretty cool they have flying cars though.” The scene you both are viewing reveals the technological advances in the chrome and steel city nearly completely swallowed by the ocean. A high speed chase ensues and a transport tunnel is flooded to eliminate the soldiers pursuing the heroes of the movie. “I didn’t know they allow fight scenes here.”
“You’ll come to find there’s all kinds of things you don’t understand about these so-called ‘girly’ movies.” You wink at him, plopping a piece of popcorn into his mouth while he wraps his arms around you, calling a truce to the insensitive banter.
He falls silent, sitting back to watch the movie as well, but as it progresses, more questions arise. The scene changes to a time period of pirates, effectively throwing the viewer hundreds of years into the past. There is a man being poisoned by the skipper of this sea-faring vessel rocking them violently back and forth within the infirmary.
The captain leaves and an African slave enters the fold suspecting something amiss with the relationship the two have forged. The slave correctly surmises poison to be the cause of the man’s ailments, forcing him to drink seawater to induce vomiting.
“Wait, what’s going on?” Abby ponders aloud, even more confused now. “Is this the same movie?”
“Yes.” You softly answer, following along with these other subplots.
“How?” Abby won’t let this go, so you resort to a brief explanation of events leading to his visual conundrum.
You pause it on the sickly man below deck, pointing at his pallid complexion and feverish disposition. “This guy has been reborn through the ages from this time period well into the future you just saw.”
He’s squinting, trying to hang on while you rewind back to the scene that takes place in dystopian Seoul.
“They put some makeup on him so he looks Korean, but it’s the same man and actor.” You flip flop back and forth to both scenes and he understands. “See? And he’s not the only one that is reborn like this. Every member of the main cast has correlating alters that fit them with the time period.”
“That’s weird.” Abby picks it apart, disquieted by the executive decision the creators of this film made while not knowing its significance quite yet. “Why wouldn’t they just get a Korean actor?”
“Because it’s supposed to be the same man.” You clarify, hoping he gets it. “Remember what I told you about reincarnation?”
“This is way too complicated.” Abby is discouraged, losing hope in getting a grasp on this film you hold in such high esteem. “I thought this was supposed to be like a love story with sappy crying and stuff.”
“It is!” You’re saddened at the fact it hasn’t clicked. “Look, I’ll restart it so you’ll be brought up to speed.”
“Ughhh…” He dramatically laments. He certainly hates a challenge, keen on understanding the puzzle himself and refusing to be bested by a silly movie “Start it up.”
He sits beside you, silent and watching the whole way through. You come to a scene that was flashed for a short moment at the beginning of the movie, a man who committed suicide with his last words being recited himself. As Abby watches, the pieces begin to fall into place. He’s seen these characters appear in the other timelines, coming full circle on their true method to the madness as he witnesses for himself the reality that love outlives death.
“Finished in a frenzy that reminded me of our last night in Cambridge. Watched my final sunrise, enjoyed a last cigarette. I believe there is a better world waiting for us Sixsmith. A better world, and I’ll be waiting for you there.”
As the scenes progress between times of past and distant future, Abby recognizes the man who wrote the letter as the one currently narrating. “Hey, he wrote the music! The Cloud Atlas Sextet! He’s the one who found the book the poisoned man wrote on the boat!”
“I know!” You‘re already trying to hold back tears, but Abby hasn’t quite made it to that level of realization yet. You point at the screen rapidly. “Watch!”
His name was Robert Frobisher, their lovely narrator for this heartbreaking segment. The next scene depicts him climbing into a bathtub just as he did at the start of the film but neither of you knew the reason yet. Now you do, watching him ready a Luger pistol to fire, placing it into his mouth and pulling the trigger.
Sixsmith himself, the recipient of this letter, is seen stepping up a narrow staircase, greeted by a man at a lodgings front desk. Sixsmith fears the worst, especially when he sees the man at reception has squeezed into a vest far too small for him; a vest once worn by the very narrator he seeks.
“No… Why? Did he give that away?” Abby points out that the man reciting his note was the one to wear that opulent article of clothing.
“Because…” You sniffle but before Sixsmith could request the location of the room of his beloved, the unmistakable sound of a gunshot blares above. Sixsmith clambers upstairs while his darling lover continues to recite his goodbyes, ending it all after taking an irredeemable blow to his career after he was discovered to be the murderer of his maestro. “He doesn’t need it anymore.”
“Oh…” Abby realizes, deflating when the shot rings out. “He is the one who shot himself in the beginning, isn’t he?”
Tears gather at Abby’s waterline when he at last connects the dots. He looks back at the screen, sniffling while the last line in the note ends, unable to look you in the eyes as he lets himself feel the gravity of the moment.
“I believe we do not stay dead long. Find me beneath the Corsican stars where we first kissed. Yours eternally, R.F.”
The tall, blond-haired Sixsmith gets there far too late. He sees his lover lifeless in a mess of surging crimson. Shamelessly, he surpasses the rim of the tub, holding and whimpering over him as his palm is stained with Robert’s blood.
You look over and you start to see Abby covertly wipe his cheek. His questions have stopped and he’s fully focused on how this will come to a close.
Another time jump happens and you’re back to Seoul. A woman you both have grown acquainted with over the course of the film has returned to finish her interview that has chronicled the whole movie. As she answers these inquiries, she is actively explaining things that have transpired in the past and will transpire in future
“Reports say Commander Chang was killed in the assault.” The interviewer provokes Sonmi-451 with news of her deceased lover and accomplice.
“What assault?” Upon hearing this, Abby puts his emotions on pause to gain clarification, playing his sniffles off. “And isn’t that the same guy who plays Sixsmith?”
“Yes’ it’s him! I told you Chang wasn’t the only one!” You announce cheerfully when you see that he’s really been paying attention. “Just keep watching!”
The interview continues. “Would you say that you loved him?”
“Yes, I do.” Sonmi-451 smiles as she says this.
“You mean you are still in love with him?”
“I mean that I always will be.”
You both watch as the scene displays a flashback to the events she was just describing in the interview. A revolutionary war has broken out and Sonmi-451 is the voice of their hope. Amidst her National Emergency Message, she is depicted overseeing a brutal attack on her people as their oppressors aim to silence her.
“Is that…?” Abby is on the edge of his seat when Commander Chang comes into view throwing grenades and blasting holes into all his approaching enemies. The man leading the assault team is the very same who’s been traveling through lifetimes in the name of fighting for the people’s cause and breaking the chains of tyranny while embracing love in all its forms. The same man who wrote the book that brought freedom to many slaves while he was being poisoned on his way home from Africa. That is the man leading the fight against the innocent, and Abby couldn’t be happier. “Whoo! Let’s go!”
Abby cheers loudly, jumping out of his seat at the intensity of battle like this is the final quarter of his favorite sports game. “Why aren’t you getting up? Isn’t this a good thing?”
You shake your head from side to side, grabbing more tissue to blow your nose into, still sobbing as Sonmi-451 continues her message. Abby sits beside you, comforting you with a hand on your knee as he receives Sonmi’s final message.
“Our lives are not our own. From womb to tomb, we are bound to others, past and present… And by each crime and every kindness, we birth our future.”
Sonmi is momentarily distracted by Commander Chang on the battlefield, finally blown away by a stray grenade blast. The frames linger on shrapnel scaring his singed face. He’s been killed and Sonmi witnesses it all. Tears fall from her eyes, taking the next scene back to the rigid and formal fugitive interrogation.
“In your revelation you spoke of the consequences of an individual’s life rippling throughout eternity. Does this mean that you believe in an afterlife? In a heaven or a Hell?”
“I believe death is only a door. When it closes, another opens. If I cared to imagine a heaven, I would imagine a door opening and behind it, I would find him there waiting for me.” Sonmi’s hopes manifest the imagery the movie follows. You both gasp, sitting back in your seats in shock when exactly that appears; a cozy white door fixed between knitted curtains and vintage wallpaper opens, letting splendid sunlight in. You begin smacking Abby on his back in excitement when you correctly assume who’s going to come through that entrance.
“Commander Chang!” You both scream with tears in your eyes, wailing hard and hugging each other at this beautifully happy ending. They may not have achieved it in the future, but all that matters is that they kept finding each other through space and time.
A woman who looks just like Sonmi mixed with Little House in the Prairie stands from her rocking chair, running to her one true love that fought tooth and nail to get back to her. Hallmark movies have nothing on this. Abby is a mess alongside you, struggling to see through the flooding in your eyes as the interview with Sonmi-451 comes to a close.
Three emotionless escorts arrive to take Sonmi away where she will be executed for her crimes, but the interviewer now revealed to be a reincarnated Sixsmith has one last thing to say. “If I may ask one last question, you had to know this union scheme was doomed to fail.”
“Yes.”
“Then why did you agree to it?”
“This is what General Apis asked of me.”
“What, to be executed?”
“If I had remained invisible, the truth would stay hidden. I couldn’t allow that.”
“And what if no one believes this truth?”
“Someone already does.”
As the movie ends in a beautiful sequence, you are left with a warm and fuzzy feeling in your heart despite the road to get there laden with tragedy. The music that gives the film its name sings to your souls as the ending credits ensue. Abby looks at you, then you to him. You both cry out in laughter with your faces drenched in streaming tears after getting to share such a wholesome experience together.
“So, what did you think of the movie?” you ask, reaching for more tissues while handing a couple to Abby.
“It wasn’t as bad as I thought.” Abby jokes, and you softly elbow his side to earn a chuckle to escape him.
“You loved it and you know it!”
“Maybe I did.” He smiles, easing you into his lap so that he can receive a kiss from your hovering lips. “Maybe I just like that I watched it with you.”
~~~
This is one of the first official times you have made it out to a Saja Boys concert since you both secretly started dating. You pay for your ticket just like any other fan, filing into the venue. It’s a smaller establishment than the massive stadiums they’ve performed in before. Their setlist isn’t very long either, creating a more intimate setting. However, the presence of so many concertgoers makes things far more cramped than you’re used to. In the face of your uneasiness, you press on for his sake. You promised you wouldn’t miss this.
As the concert carries on, the collective swirling energy only elevates as the fans go crazy. They’re screaming at the top of their lungs, vibrating in their places and jostling around you incessantly. The dark enclosure is sliced through with blinding lights. You can’t hear any music over the voices booming around you. Your ears start to ring and your vision declines into fogginess.
As your breath hastens, a decimating tightness forms in your chest, igniting an excruciating burn that only seems to get worse. The tingliness in your fingers spreads through your hands and up your arms. People on all sides of you are closing in tight. The air is hot and thick with humidity. You cannot stand it any longer. You begin fighting your way to bob and weave through the crowd.
You are swept up with the current of bodies, beckoning you to abandon all ceremony and do everything in your power to make it out. You don’t know how you manage it, but you successfully navigate to the exit, and while you were hoping it would serve as your saving grace, the head change worsens when you pass the threshold and the cool night air fills your lungs. You were under the impression that this great escape would bring relief, but it proves to be the cause of more pain.
Making your way to the deserted back alley while the masses are occupied with the party indoors, you stumble to the nearest wall, bracing yourself to the immoveable structure. You find yourself easing to the ground, your back sliding against the rough building’s exterior. Having fully descended, you hang your head between your knees, tightly gripping the layers of clothing currently restricting your aching chest.
Your breathing has only gotten faster. You begin to wheeze audibly, desperate to be saved from these harrowing afflictions. You don’t even realize your face stained with emotion as it streams down your cheeks, its droplets soaking into your shirt.
Through all the panic and turmoil, a voice says your name. It’s hard to detect through the ringing in your ears, but you will not forsake its call. You bring yourself to open your eyes. Things haven’t come into focus just yet, but a hooded silhouette manifests right in front of you as if it appeared through smoke, golden glowing eyes beaming at you like headlights on a vehicle.
As you blink away your sorrow, you finally see who it is that came to your rescue. Abby has come and found you, ensuring you are not alone at your most vulnerable. How did he know you were gone? You made the assumption that he would be far too busy putting on the show to even notice that you made your hasty evasion, seeing that he snuck away to find you himself.
“It’s okay.” He takes a knee to get closer to you, comforting you with soft circles on your back. “Just try to breathe.”
“I-I don’t think I can.” You stutter, still hyperventilating as you cry. On top of everything, you’re now burdened with the embarrassment of him seeing you in such a state of dismay. “I don’t know what’s happening. I’m s-sorry…”
“In through your nose and out through your mouth.” He does not accept your apology for there is nothing to be sorry for. “Do it.”
Listening to his sympathetic commands, it is decidedly easier said than done. “I can’t… I can’t…”
“Yes you can.” He squeezes your shoulder with that robust palm of his; the anchor keeping you grounded. You hold on tightly to his wide wrist with both of your hands, tiny by comparison.
“I’m going insane.” You hate these episodes, blindsided when the impending doom creeps in, lying in wait to consume you from the shadows.
“Nonsense.” Abby lifts your chin and solicits an engaging visual connection and it works. Little by little, the pain in your chest eases and you find an even keel in due course. You rejoice when the worst of the storm passes, leaving only his loving embrace to welcome you back to reality. “There you are. Better?”
“Yes.” You agree, seeing him with his hood pulled over and pointed markings slowly fading away, but the golden glint in his eyes remains. “I’m sorry.”
“Stop saying that.” He requests seriously, tired of hearing it.
“But your fans-” You look past him to where cheerful concertgoers are beginning to congregate in the streets following the show’s conclusion, but are cut off when he assertively keeps your gaze trained on him with that hold he has on your jaw.
“They don’t matter to me nearly as much as you do.” Abby strokes your cheek with his thumb, your head being dwarfed by his spanning appendages. A bubbling nervousness different from before flutters to the surface; a welcome nervousness. One that you hope never fades. “They’re not going anywhere, and when you left, I couldn’t rest until I saw it for myself.”
“Saw what for yourself?” You lay the weight of your head into his hand, letting him hold you.
“That you are safe.” He smiles, saying it so plainly obvious and yet you’ve never known someone to be so watchfully dedicated.
“I tried to stay, but the crowds…” You admit shamefully, but when he starts to lean in, the second his lips meet yours, everything melts away. Your fears seem meaningless when you’re in his presence, reminding you that you have nothing to worry about for as long as he is in your life.
“We were on our last song.” He pets your hair as it falls beautifully around your face. “You didn’t miss a thing.”
“Are the others mad you left?”
“They know the drill. I don’t have to ask them to cover for me.” As he speaks, he adjusts himself, scooping you with one arm under both your knees and the other supporting your back as he hoists you against his muscular chest. Having heroically plucked you from the cold, hard ground, he’s able to speak directly into your ear, the warmth of his breath causing you to giggle from how it tickles. “What do you say we get out of here?”
“I say, what are you waiting for?” You wiggle your nose against his, placing a kiss directly on the tip of it. He dissolves at your lovely display of affection, biting his lip to hold himself back and stifle his prominent desires.
“Don’t look down.” He dismounts, using the environment as a cloak to keep you both undetected from the citizenry below. You smile as you are lifted high above the city, gliding on his supernatural powers into the starry night sky.
~~~
“So what made you want to try this recipe?” Abby asks, watching you shred some fresh herbs and other greens.
“It seemed easy enough.” You shrug, collecting the herbs into a small glass dish to be used later. “I had it in a restaurant and was convinced I could make it better at home.”
“What’s it called?”
“Shrimp Scampi.” You smile, saying the words with a lively inflection. “Fun to say, isn’t it?”
“Scampi. Scampi.” He lets the word roll off his tongue a couple times, understanding the amusement. “Yeah, I guess it’s pretty funny.”
“Want to help me slice this shallot?” You pass him half of the bulb as well as a sharpened knife.
“How do you want it?” He takes the shallot and utensil, lining it up just like you.
“Like this.” You begin to move your knife up and down, demonstrating the portions longways. Abby does exactly as instructed, maybe even with more dexterity than you for a second. “Yep. you got it.”
“Does this go into the pan you’re warming up over there?” Abby gestures to his side where a skillet rests on a heating element with glistening olive oil coating the bottom.
“Yes!” You enthusiastically confirm. “Why don’t you start tossing them into it.”
It would appear that he took your directions literally as he moves a couple steps away from the stove, holding the cutting board steady under one arm while playing shallot basketball with the other.
“What are you doing with my shallots, mister?” You feign anger, knowing he’s just trying to make fun.
“Practicing my aim.” He responds, continuing to toss strands into the pan so that they may sizzle.
“Okay, you’ve done enough practicing.” You start to urge him towards the stove, but he doesn’t budge. Instead, he passes you the cutting board. “You don’t want to do it?”
“I’ll just watch you.” Something about the way he says that tells you there’s more about this exchange you may be missing. Was the humorous intermission a ruse for a deeper issue?
Challenging, you hand him back the cutting board. “What’s the matter? You think you’re gonna mess up?”
“What? No!” Almost offended, he can see that you’ve noticed his shift in demeanor.
“Then what is it?” You know better than to leave well enough alone.
“It’s hot, okay!”
“What’s hot?” You wonder what he could possibly mean, laying your eyes on the sizzling skillet. “The pan?”
Laughter explodes out of you as Abby crosses his arms in annoyance. You catch your breath and address this head on. “So- wait. Let me make sure I have this right. You. A literal demon. You’re scared of a little hot oil?”
“Hey, getting singed by fire is way different from having oil splashed on you!” Abby reasons, pointing a finger at you in defiance. “There’s a reason it was an efficient way to defend castles.”
“I’m sorry, I assumed you just didn’t feel it.” You stifle back a giggle.
“We do feel it. You just… get used to it.” You’re disarmed by his soft side coming through and decide to make amends
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” You are sincere in your apology and he brings down his walls again.
“I’m just kidding. I wasn’t actually offended.” He clears the air with sarcasm. “Though, I will say I don’t do enough cooking to be confident with putting the rest of those in.”
“We’ll do it together.” You smile while reaching for his hand in guiding him to scrape all the shallots off the cutting board with the back of the knife. “See? Just like that.”
As they begin to break down and caramelize, he sniffs the air when you crack fresh salt and pepper over the shallots. “Mmmm… That smells good.”
“We haven’t even added the garlic yet.” You pull out a microplane and grate two cloves right over the hot oil. As soon as it hits the pan, the scent grows deeper and more savory. His mouth is watering as you toss and stir them around. “See those chili flakes?”
Abby looks over to where you’re pointing with your wooden spoon, a nearby bowl with vibrant seed pods of warm hues. He adorably takes them from where they’re resting and spins around to show you. “Got ‘em!”
“Throw a dash into the pan for me, will you?” You move your spoon aside, giving him space to sprinkle.
Abby goes the extra mile, lifting his arm above his head when he’s already so tall. The sprinkles fall like confetti, decorating the shallots with healthy pops of color. After he sets the bowl aside, he rests his chin on your shoulder and hugs you from behind. “What’s next?”
“Actually, I have to keep this moving so it doesn’t burn, so I was hoping you’d cut a handful of those cherry tomatoes in half for me.”
“Urghhhhhh….” He groans, dropping his hands to his side and stomping over to the cutting board again. “But I wanted to keep hugging you.”
“You will get plenty of hugs from me when we get to eat this for dinner.” You smile while stirring. “Now chop!”
He starts chopping them, and after a couple handfuls he looks at you and asks, “Is this enough?”
“That’s perfect!” You bounce in place and he grins sweetly at your approval “Bring them here.”
Once added, the tomatoes blister and break down amongst the caramelized ingredients. After a while, it comes time to deglaze with a couple tablespoons of white wine. Abby sees you reach for the glass bottle, wrapping your fingers around the neck of it. “Woah, is it drink’o clock already?”
“This is for the food, you goober.” Abby stands corrected as you swish a couple splashes into the pan with your thumb providing a sensible stop to the flow of the wine.
“Of course it is.” Abby crosses his arms again, doing that when he’s bested. “I knew that!”
“Sure you did.” You laugh while continuing to stir. You have a warm mug of vegetable stock on the counter beside you, pouring a little in following the wine. “Is that water boiling over there?”
Abby leans over and nods. “Yep.”
“Okay, good.” Capers and basil make it with the other aromatics, finalizing the sauce for this dish. As you toss your seasoned raw shrimp into a separate hot skillet with oil and lemon zest, you task Abby with setting the noodles to simmer. “Those bundles of cavatappi, put them in the water.”
Abby backs up, lining his shot like he did before, but you call him out. “Are you going to throw everything in my kitchen?”
“Just the fun stuff.” Abby shrugs, treating your handmade pasta noodles like a winning pitch. You want to be upset, but you can’t deny it does look pretty fun. He throws one bundle, causing a splash to spill over the stove’s surface. He then does something unexpected and offers you the other. “C’mon. You know you want to.”
You take the pan off the heat, setting the sauce and fully cooked shrimp aside to keep warm. Approaching Abby, he hands you the stringy bundle of dough, flour being transferred from his hands to yours. You resume a similar stance to his, throwing the noodles right on the mark with a secondary splash. “Okay, that was a little fun. We’re just making a mess in the process.”
“And messes can always be cleaned.” Abby cages you in with the counter. “How long do those have to cook?”
You lean back and set a timer for four minutes, giving you a grace period of a minute or so until they’re done. “Too fast to do anything worthwhile.”
Abby can see you want him but are saddened at the finite period of romance to be shared, taking advantage of every second he gets. He lifts you with ease, seating you on the flour-dusted counter space where your noodles were rolled out. You’re at his level now, his face right in front of yours. His powerful arms coil around you. The ticking of the timer sets a hasty beat like an impatient metronome.
His kisses are full and impassioned. His tongue slithers into your mouth, exploring its taste as his saliva melds with yours. His taloned hands thread into your hair and he grips you fervently, yanking your head back to mark your neck with his fanged bites.
Just when you start grinding into him and his lips find your mouth once more, the timer goes off. You continue to kiss him, accepting all he has to give, until you scream at yourself from the inside not to let the noodles turn to mush.
“Gah!” You gasp for breath, pushing him aside so that you can race to the boiling pot, carry it to the sink and strain the noodles.
“They’re not overcooked, are they?” Abby points out, his sinister grin very prominent in his speech when he sees he’s done well in distracting you. He walks over to meet you, watching the strained noodles fall right back into the pot. “I hate bloated noodles.”
“Well, if they are, that would be your fault, wouldn’t it?” You take the noodles back to the stove, setting it down so that you can pull one out and test it. After ripping it in half, you give one portion to Abby for him to taste it himself. “Only one way to find out.”
As you put the noodle into your mouth, Abby does the unthinkable. Actually, you should have guessed that he would do this; he throws the noodle right at your kitchen wall.
“What did you do that for?!” You’re at first outraged at the waste, hoping to gauge his opinion of something you worked really hard on making.
“I read online that this is the best way to see if noodles are done.” The quaint innocence in his response disarms you. It is true, you have heard that before, but you always thought the notion to be silly and relied on taste instead of physics. You reel yourself back, taking a breath and reminding yourself that every glimpse into his mind is a blessing, no matter how eccentric.
Taking in the depth of his charm, you’ve but one thing to ask. “Well, what does that mean?”
You both look at the noodle still clinging to your wall, picturesque alongside the other artwork you have suspended there, having not moved an inch.
“That means it’s time to plate this up.” Abby licks his lips, craving a bite. “I’m starving.”
You do just as he requests and put everything together. The shrimp are coated with that decadent sauce you made, wonderfully finished with the heaping bundles of thin pasta. After a healthy stir and toss around, you load up a couple bowls, placing a portion of buttered and toasted baguette beside each swirling pile. You can see the eagerness on Abby’s face when you depart from the kitchen to rest both bowls on the dining table where you then sit across from him to enjoy the fruits of your labor.
With no words spoken, the only sounds in the space come from silverware twisting on plates and Abby’s spirited devouring of the Scampi. He doesn’t even need to say it. His moans of bliss as he shovels forkful after forkful into his mouth tell all. You don’t even make it halfway through your own serving when he stands up and heads to the pot for more.
“You like it?” You ask meekly while driving your fork into a plump piece of shrimp.
Sauce drips from his chin as his cheeks balloon with food. He swallows the bite currently in his mouth so that he can speak. “I love it. Like I love you.”
He lets you collect the mess on his face with a folded napkin, his strong jaw so colossal in your grasp. You kiss him this time, committing every ounce of his happiness to memory. “I love you too.”
∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆
Taglist: @captxin-rex @gospelofme @fangirl-goes-nova @romanoffs-gf @sstarwarsss @r2d2staser @nahoney22 @ashotofspotchka @eclec-tech @art-of-the-twistedstitcher @only-a-simp-deals-in-absolutes @justalittletomato @twiggoblin @xsherryberryx @kriffclone @sweetminx @deewithani @tinker-tech @megafrost4 @freesia-writes @boontaeveboba @ahoeformando @arctrooper69 @taz-107 @lizzowinkyface @chad-something @nobody-expects-the-inquisitorius @merkitty49 @nonsenseandm3mes @id-rather-be-a-druid @storm89 @techs-stitches @the-chains-are-the-easy-part @succulent-momma @virtualexpertanchor @padawancat97 @hurtbywhisperedmuses @misogirl828 @seriowan @plushymiku-blog @the-dathomirian-jedi @ladykatakuri @mysticalgalaxysalad @talesfrommedinastation @dukeoftheblackstar @littlecrowtime