Keeping Up With A Himbo: Vergil (I)- Lost In The Sauce
Series Summary: A series of domestically fluffy snippets where the s/o of a Sparda learns just how much of a himbo their lover is.
Work Summary: Vergil tries to cook for you and loses a fight with a salt grinder.
Tags/Warnings: Gender-Neutral S/O, Domestic Fluff, SFW, Vergil Is A Disaster And We Love Him, Meme References in Title and Story, Implied Touch-Starved! Vergil,
Vergil always noticed that ever since he moved to your place, he had yet to move a finger when it came to making meals. Usually, it was you who chose to go to the grocery stores and come back home to cook.
It always brought him good feeling, to sit beside you and have a hot meal with you. However, he soon realized how the scale of responsibilities was becoming lopsided, tipping in his favor.
You would return exhausted from work, only to cook and clean once more. Vergil was also working at his brother’s shop, slaying demons and all sorts of nasty creatures.
But he was a subhuman of ungodly stamina, he rarely felt exhaustion as quickly as you did. You knew that. And yet, here you were, still insisting to do most of the cooking. Although it was nice to be pampered, reading a book near the counter as you chopped up ingredients for a hearty lunch or dinner, Vergil knew it was unreciprocated for some time now.
As of late, your work had become harder, with longer hours and lesser benefits. You found yourself pushing against the clock, having to prepare the evening meal despite the time crunch. You woke up earlier to sleep later. And yet, you staunchly refused to not provide for the two of you.
He grumbled a bit on the inside, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. His eyes glanced at the clock. You would be home in an hour, at around 9 pm. Much later than you had already been working.
Humans are easily tired, and it was a Friday. For you to come home and deal with such a chore would be the straw that broke the camel’s back.
Vergil cursed himself. He was more than capable of doing some tasks around your shared home. After years of living alone, he was not used to all of this-this bliss. How could he be so foolish to not give back to his beloved?
With strife, he promptly rolled up his sleeves and grabbed your apron. A bit small around his chest, as he was much more muscular than you.
Thinking of the sight of your face brightening if you came home to a prepared meal, he set out to prove himself as more than capable in the kitchen.
And perhaps garner some praise from you. Not like he’d ever admit he wanted it.
He opened the cabinets and fridge. Careful hands took out pasta and tomato sauce, setting it on the counter. Vergil read the instructions for the spaghetti, doing exactly what the box told him.
It was already his job before to open the cans, and the glass jar popped freely of its lid within seconds.
He tasted the sauce with a spoon, observing that the sole acrid taste of tomatoes did not sit well with him.
What did you always add? Obviously salt and pepper.
He did as such, taking out the old salt grinder. He proceeded to grind the salt into the pan of simmering sauce, bubbling perhaps too rapidly and violently. Somehow, no salt seemed to come out. He tsked and incessantly continued his motions for what seemed like whole minutes.
When that didn’t work, he changed his clockwise motion to counter, and no avail. It must have been jammed in the inside, he deducted.
He shook the grinder.
The lid of the grinder fell into the saucepan, a cup’s worth of salt tumbling in also.
Vergil cursed, trying to take out as much salt as he could before it dissolved in the sauce.
The hands of the clock comforted him, you were yet to be home for some time.
The sauce was ruined and it was salty like the sea, ten-folded.
“What can counteract salt?” Vergil thought to himself.
A dusty lightbulb flickered in his mind, and he reached for the little canister of sugar.
He poured some sugar into the sauce, hoping to revert it back to normal. Years of consuming demonic flesh would do this to a man’s sense of culinary logic.
The pasta, which he forgot to strain out earlier, flopped miserably into the pan. Vergil gave his attempt a try.
As if salt wasn’t bad enough, the sugar combined in it made Vergil actually recoil. How on earth did you cook everyday?!
More over, how on earth did he derail a simple recipe to this?
Sauce, burnt, salted, sweetened, and pasta forsaken and soggy, Vergil had officially lost his mind.
He went to take off your apron in shame, and all the hairs on his body stood up when the door opened, earlier than he presumed.
You came home to a strange smell, kicking off your shoes and leaving your coat on the rack.
“I’m home!” You called out wearily, ready to make some dinner.
You expected to see Vergil sitting in his loveseat. What you got was Vergil standing awkwardly in the kitchen, as if he did something wrong and didn’t want to tell you.
“He looks like that Robert Pattinson meme?” You half-smiled at your internal monologue.
“Ah! You’re cooking.” You say, making your way over to the stove.
He murmured grumpily. It appeared he tried to make some noodles in tomato sauce. You went to take a forkful of it, when a strong hand caught your wrist.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
“Why not? You made it!”
“I don’t want to poison you.” His grip was strong, refusing to let you move your hand to your mouth.
Instead of putting the pasta to your face, you put your face to the pasta, tricking the devil with your conniving reflexes. He released you with a sigh, his lover Loki-incarnate.
Vergil expected a look of disgust akin to his own, yet you didn’t allow that reaction to appear on your features.
“Not bad.” You say with endearment, looking up at him. He scoffs when your eye twitched at the soured taste.
“You would be a fool to lie to me.”
“I mean, it’s-it’s something.” You laugh, stirring the very-past-al-dente noodles.
The fork clinks against something solid in the pot. You fish out the lid of the salt grinder.
“Oh, oh you really got lost in the sauce.” You deadpan. He stiffens in embarrassment.
“This was a waste of resources and time. I should’ve been better.”
“Not to me it’s not. You did do your best. Were you trying to cook for me?” He nodded, refusing to look at you.
You take another mouthful, noting sweetness.
“Did you add sugar-” Your answer lies in the half-empty container of sugar. You cover your mouth to laugh. Vergil grumbles again.
“It’s okay, Vergil!” He still won’t look at you. No matter how much you chant his name, he refuses to turn his head.
“Hey. Hey.” You try to move his face to look at you. His jaw clenches and he relents his gaze at the wall, opting to be eye-to-eye with his beaming lover.
“You tried. And that’s all that matters.”
“And I have failed to make something edible. It’s not fair for me to serve you this after such a toiling week of work-” He glances at the pan with this scorn.
“But you made something for me. And that’s very thoughtful of you.” You cup his cheek, your boyfriend subtlety leaning to your palm.
“I’m still not letting you eat the rest-”
“Oh trust me, I don’t want to.” You butt in, taking out your phone.
Takeout?” You offer, pointing to the GrubHub delivery app.
He agrees, letting you pick out what you think he would like.
Your grumpy devil sits on his dark blue loveseat, forgoing to untie the apron. You wait for your delivery, sitting in his lap. Your exhaustion from work and the emotional sauce rollercoaster is seeping away from you-
-and into the plush pectorals against your cheek, framed nicely by your usual cooking smock.
“This man could burn down the kitchen with that apron on and I’d just let him.” You think to yourself.
He’s lucky he’s cute.
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