#this is also finally the dadgil we deserve

[prototypelq]

WHEEZING at your tags on the fic link. It's not like I've been super constant about reminding that I have a tumblr so it's entirely okay that you didn't notice!

Also Yeah Vergil pulled the "I've connected the dots" meme only it's "I've sent info about my location" and- I should do a meme redraw for this with the two of them honestly. But it's not his fault he doesn't know that Mallet Island has some fun lore about it. (: if you know you know.

Thank you so much for reading, btw! I love your DMC posts so this really made my morning to see you go unhinged about my fic. QvQ

You know, I have 'connected the dots' just as well as Vergil did in that chapter xDDD Also, now it's UNHINGED time because I have Thoughts TM about your fic and the execution of everything you've done for it (I think it's absolutely great). And I am known to spam and throw any and every Thought TM out into the wild of the internet, specifically with the goal of using them to bonk on the head of the author xD (very gently and with a pat and platonic smooch afterwards, cause creating things is HARD). Up to this point, your saving grace has been my slowness and partially limited access to ao3, but no more!

I have wanted to reread the Not a Savior, not a Human series anyway, so I will do that, and then stack my notes and excessive fangirlism like the damage buffs they are to attack you in the inbox later (with hugs and praise, because I love this series).

[ssson-of-sparda]

Fathers Do Cry (DMC Vergil one shot)

Summary: Vergil remembers his last Father's Day with Sparda and doesn't really realise how similar to him he has become.

Tags: Father's Day special / DADGIL! / Vergil acting like a dad to Nero

Author’s note: I woke up this morning suddenly inspired. Doesn't happen very often so enjoy ;) ps: I just love Dadgil!

***

His big blue eyes staring without blinking, the child was observing his father sitting by the fireplace in the parlour. Full of admiration, he was detailing all the features of his serious face, all the details of his confident posture and all the different luxurious fabrics that made his purple finery and as he did, he repeated to himself, wished, prayed, that someday, one day, he would grow up to be just like him.          “Aren’t you going to speak, Vergil?” The father’s powerful voice asked as he finally acknowledged the boy’s presence with a small amused smile, wondering what brilliant thoughts were occupying his eldest son’s sharp mind this time.            “I made this for you, father.” With a solemnity that didn’t suit a five-years-old but that somehow fitted Vergil’s young yet wise spirit and his will to be perfect son in the eyes of Sparda, the boy handed a paper sheet to his father.         “ And what would that be?” The man said as he took his son’s gift. “It’s father’s day so … I made you a poem… or tried to.” The adorable embarrassment tensing the child’s traits in funny grimaces made the father's smile wider but Vergil, suddenly too preoccupied with the blue paint stuck under his fingernails, didn’t notice it as he didn’t notice the paternal pride and the love shining in his eyes.               “I thought your mother wanted you and your brother to make a gift together this year.” “ You know Dante” Vergil sighed. “He has no artistic talent whatsoever. He wanted to make you a wooden sword to play with us.”    “ That’s actually a very good idea.”  Vergil frowned; suddenly worried that Sparda would not like his gift and preferred Dante’s – if he had made one of course. “Except when the sword looks like two twigs glued together. You should have seen this, father. It looked ri.di.cu.lous.” Sparda laughed at his son’s attitude, finding amusement in this sibling rivalry. “Why don’t you read me your poem then?”              “ I learnt it by heart actually. The paper is for you to remember this day by … and also because I wanted to illustrate it. Look.” Vergil approached his father, seized the poem from his big hands and climbed on his lap to show him the delicate aquarelle he had painted around the lines. “Impressive. Did your mother help you with this?” Vergil shook his head. “No, I did it on my own. I used a book I saw in that old man’s house I often go to as a reference.”       “ The old academic that lives down the hill? I thought you found him boring.” Vergil shook his head again, furiously this time and with a serious frown. “That’s Dante. Me, I really like him. He teaches me a lot of things. And he has lots of books. It’s incredible.”

Sparda ruffled his son’s silver hair whose hairdo was always made in order to somehow mimic his, thinking what a promising young boy Vergil was. Maybe more promising than Dante to be honest – though he knew he shouldn’t think that.   But there was something that Vergil had that Dante lacked. Perhaps rationality beyond his age … or some kind of maturity … wisdom maybe? He couldn’t really pinpoint what it was exactly. All he knew is that it was something unique and special, just like his son, something that made Sparda certain that one day his eldest would grow up to be a great man, a man greater than him, a man worthy of the Yamato and capable of handling its burdening power.

“Can I recite my poem now?” Sparda smiled at the sparkle in Vergil’s eyes. “Sure.” The boy quickly took back his previous position in front his father, cleared his throat, put his hands behind his back and stuck out his chest.

Sparda listened to every word, fascinated and amazed by his little one’s talent and profoundly moved by all the love, all the meticulousness and the time he put in each line and in each word. “Oh Vergil. The world is not yet ready for someone like you.” The father said as he let a tear roll down his cheek. “Why are you crying, father?” Vergil worried. “Because fathers cry, my son.”

That day was the last time Vergil truly celebrated Father’s day for a few weeks later he had no father, no one to make poems to, no one to admire by the fireplace. Just a memory that he feared would sooner or later fade but that he would cling to dearly for as long as he could.

“Why don’t we bring flowers to Daddy’s statue in the park today?” Eva asked when Vergil was six, when Vergil was seven, when Vergil was eight only to be welcome by a heavy silence that was no longer hiding brilliant thoughts but a painful sadness. But each time he did as Eva suggested, maybe more for her than for him, maybe because he still loved and admired Sparda even if he had left him, maybe because he thought that his father might see him and smile from wherever he was now, the same way he had smiled when he had read him his poem on his last father’s day.

And that’s certainly why, more than three decades later, he was back in this park, on this very special day with a bouquet of purple peonies he had bought on his way here and a memory that never faded. A memory he could still recite.

"Whether the sun shines or the sky cries,                 Whether the day breaks or the night wakes,       My father always as a rampart stands Protecting my house with his bare hands.

He is strong, he is brave                 And the day he always saves.     A knight in cockroach armor     To scare my terror away."

Vergil scoffed at the lines, at the way they rolled off his tongue, finding them funny and childish and not worthy of a Blake or a Fielding at all unlike what he thought when he wrote them as a child. The over-confidence of youth probably.

“Did you just come up with that?” Vergil turned around to see Nero walking towards him with a smirk. A surprise but not a bad one. “Cause the rhyming sucks a little. I expected more of you.”                “ And I suppose you’re an expert in poetry now?”         “ I may read have read one of your books.” He said as he tapped the pocket of his marine blue coat hiding Vergil's most sacred book with pride. “You still have it I see.”     “Hey! It’s a real page turner! Can’t get my nose out of it.” Vergil had a crooked smile, understanding perfectly what his son meant.

Son? Even a year after this reveal he still couldn’t believe this boy before him, the one he had lived such a terrifying yet incredible adventure with, was his own flesh and blood.

A sigh almost escaped Vergil’s lips. How did he make such a fine young man? Someone so selfless, so generous, so loving when he was nothing like that.              “ What are you doing here, Nero?” He asked, trying not to think more about this.      “ Well it’s father’s day, no? So … I made you something… or tried to.” The embarrassed grimace Nero suddenly made made Vergil’s smile grew larger but Nero, too worried to keep the gift covered with the pieces of newspapers he had taped together, didn’t see it as he didn’t see the paternal pride and the love shining in his father’s blue eyes. The same paternal pride Sparda had displayed when Vergil was a little child with a small paper in his hands.  “Thank you Nero.” The man said as he gently took the present from his son's hands, wondering what it was even though the long shape didn’t leave much place for imagination.

He cautiously unwrapped the thing, already feeling a happiness he hadn’t felt in years warming his heart. And when he saw a katana-like wooden sword that purposely looked like Yamato he couldn’t help but smile and let a tiny drop of water blur his blue eyes. “It was Dante’s idea. Though he might have suggested gluing two sticks together.” Nero said as he scratched his head. “It looks amazing.” Vergil’s honesty was like a knife in Nero’s chest but in a good way. It was as if all the stress and all the stupid fear he had felt while making this toy sword had been stabbed away. He felt relieved, joyful even that his always so stern father was genuinely grateful and seemed to appreciate his gift. “That way, you won’t have to tear my arm apart again cause look, you have two now.” Nero tried to joke but his words just erased the smile on Vergil’s face.

“There is not a single day I don't regret what I did to you.” This was Vergil’s way to say he was sorry. Nero was certain of it. He didn’t need to know his father that well to know it. After all, he was somewhat the same. “Hey, it’s in the past. Plus it grew back, so no harm done.” He winked, trying to ease the atmosphere with a bad pun worthy of Dante even though there was a time he would have ripped Vergil’s chest open for what he had done. And a part of him knew he would never forget and maybe never fully forgive what happened.               But right now he was just happy to have a family, to have a father and to finally be able to celebrate a day he has so long hated.  “ This world doesn’t deserve you, son.” Vergil solemnly declared. He had never called Nero that way and that name felt strange yet beautiful to both of them. It made the son and the father smile in ways they never thought they would smile at each other. “ Damn, are you crying old man? I thought devils never cry.” Nero suddenly harrumphed when he finally noticed the water growing in his father's eyes.                   “ Well, fathers do cry." Vergil declared as he allowed a tear of joy and pride to fall along his pale cheek. The first in a very very long time but one he will never regret or brush away. "Father do cry.” He repeated with a glance at the statue of his father behind him.

[zenithlux]

Nero and Vergil, 08!

Sweet! I haven’t done a Dadgil story in awhile. HIlariously, I imagined this prompt taking place in Cadences world? Thankfully, I haven’t written any scene like this yet though, but here is how I would expect that all to go down xD Sorry it took a few extra days, but I hope you enjoy!

Also, if anyone else wishes to request a drabble, you can find the list here! If I get any duplicates, I will let you know, but feel free to send multiple numbers (2 at a time would be best) and I will write the ones that are not duplicates! (So far I’ve finished 43, 35, and 104, with 92 on the way!) 

#8 - FORGET IT. YOU FUCKING SUCK

Nero didn’t like being angry all the time. Honest. He wasn’t used to it. He felt all wrong. It wasn’t the way he acted around anyone else. Even Kyrie had noticed, asking multiple times if he was alright. And Nero had promised he was, but he knew she didn’t believe him. But she kept supporting him anyway, and he knew she was doing everything she could to help.

Nero knew he didn’t deserve her, but he was glad she was there for him all the same. 

On the bright(?) side, he did know the source of his anger. One, infuriatingly brusque, clueless, and formerly (?) evil half-devil that just so happened to be his father. 

Dante had told Nero numerous times that Vergil wanted a relationship, but given the latter’s actions, Nero didn’t believe it one bit. Vergil rarely talked to him, and most conversations ended in fierce, almost bloody arguments. For the most part, Nero’s estranged father avoided his home entirely. He came to the orphanage if there were demons, but never to help out or do anything else productive. Dante had to drag him to family gatherings, but Vergil would practically hug the wall until the end, or disappear when he thought no one was looking.

But Nero still remembered Kyrie’s words; “he’s lost, Nero. He doesn’t know what to do or what to say to make this right.”

“How is that my fault?”

“It’s not. But if anyone can mend this relationship, it’s you.”

“And what if I don’t want to?”

“Then I’m certain he’ll accept that.”

And that bothered Nero more than anything else. Because he knew, deep down, that Kyrie was right. Vergil would accept it. He would stay away if that’s what Nero wanted. 

And dammit, that’s not what Nero wanted.

Unfortunately, this current conversation, in which Nero had gone to Devil May Cry himself, kicked Dante out, and started with all the right intentions, was quickly falling apart at his feet. And at first, everything had gone well despite the shallow conversation. They’d exchanged birthdays (Vergil couldn’t remember his, so they’d had to track down Dante’s on a calendar somewhere). He’d learned Vergil’s favorite food (fruit, go figure) favorite color (blue- finally something in common) and a whole bunch of other rather useless information. But it was a start.

But then, things had fallen completely apart. All it had taken was one bad reaction. One sign that Vergil was unwilling to bridge this gap himself. 

“If you want to fix this, start with the orphanage. We need all the help we can get.”

And Vergil had visibly flinched, frowning to hide his clear terror at such an idea. And the sheer rage Nero felt was overwhelming. How dare this man come back into his life after so many stupid mistakes, and refuse to help atone for what he’d done wrong. How dare he belittle Nero and Kyrie’s tireless efforts to keep the city together. A city that, while not as damaged as Redgrave, felt the Qliphoth’s destruction all the same. 

“Forget it,” Nero snapped. “You fucking suck.”

But as he turned to leave, a quiet “wait... Nero” drew him right back. And when he turned to see the pure anguish in Vergil’s eyes, his anger dissipated. “What is it?” Nero said. “Why do you...”

“I need more time,” Vergil said. “I need...” He faltered; the first time Nero had seen such a thing. And suddenly, a wave of understanding crashed over him. 

“It’s okay,” Nero said. “I... I understand.” 

Vergil’s eyes widened, and Nero saw a split second of confusion before he recovered. “I just need time,” He finished. “I’m... trying.”

Slowly, Nero nodded. “I know.”