#likeasilverbullet

☀️ I want to rp with you, but I’m not sure how

🎂 I’m new to your blog, and I want to be friends

Ask about character hcs

It is impossible to get into how Vergil feels about Eva. Not because of it’s complexity, but simply because there’s so much of her stripped from his memory. When Mundus decided he would make a mocker of Sparda just one more time, he probed and stole the memories of Eva straight from Vergil’s mind. His previous attempts had been fruitless, wrong hair color, wrong smile, wrong voice, wrong touch, Mundus was painting vistas he’d only read about. It was only until he saw her through Vergil’s eyes, through Vergil’s memories that he was able to create a perfect copy, one that he’d go on to send off and attempt to trick his own twin with her image. 

So little was left of her to Vergil, her face muddied in his mind thanks to his captors perversions, yet what remained was a soft root of affection. Even without the memories of her loving gaze nor her gentle laughter, Vergil could feel the radiant warmth of her love threatening to germinate that seed of guilt that festered in his heart. After many years of self hatred it took tearing himself in two to realize how deeply Eva was rooted in him. He had lied when he said he hated his humanity, hated the gift she gave him, when truthfully he was too ashamed to have lost the one link he had to that humanity. To lose his mother was a pain he’d never forget, but to lose the memory of his mother was salt to the earth and it was all his own foolish pride and headstrong nature that caused it.

muse trust test (accepting)

❤❤ 

Rubble made for an uncomfortable resting place. The ground was hard and uneven and the man could already feel where the crooks in his back would ache the moment he sat up. The air was crisp as the man took in a deep breath, heavy-lidded eyes blearily opening slowly. It was the dappled light over him being overshadowed by a figure that had roused him.

A young man, early-mid twenties, cropped white hair, rag-tag but rugged garb with a large sword hoisted on his back. As the hazy outline gradually took focus he had a flicker of confusion flash through his mind at the resemblance, but his senses told him this was neither of his sons, despite sensing his own blood flowing through the other’s veins... Time had clearly passed. How long had it been since?

Since...?

Looking around, the man beheld the state of the world around them. The ruins of a city, up-heaved, dropped and left to crumble. He’d been lying at the foot of a statue of the deity of space and time. There had been another outpouring then. In their surrounds he recognized the brambly remains of an ancient tree, not of this world but his own. Another Qliphoth?

Sparda couldn’t help himself. Nero was an extraordinary individual. And he was drawn to other powerful demons, even a quarter-demon like him. At the first moment they had alone he pulled Nero into the hall and pinned him against one of the walls and started kissing up his jaw. This made his grandson give a surprised noise but Sparda quickly silenced it with a heated, deep kiss.

Send me ℧ for me to generate a scenario for our muses || @likeasilverbullet

“What the fuck is right.” Dante smirked and sauntered over to Nero, eyeing his hard length. “You’re out here being bad, right on my couch.” One finger presses down on the tip of his cock and lets go, making his length spring and bounce. 

“Who said you could do this without permission?” The same hand comes across Nero’s face in a light smack, not to hurt but enough to shock him, palm making contact with a blushed cheek. “I certainly didn’t.”