hi im kendall (or kendy or ken or idk call me what u want just donât call me late for dinner) im 31 i use any pronouns and this is my blog where i write and talk about dante dmc and sometimes other animanga and games and right now love and deepspace.......
i am a self shipper, if you dont like that please go look at another blog. this space will contain posts relating to both me as a person and my relationship with the media i consume.
you can find my old blog here, my archive of our own here, and my current writing tag here
i do not maintain a masterlist but am currently in the process of putting works both old and new on ao3 for better organization.
hanginâ out @maplewood-valley these days âĽď¸
these are my three small rules please don't break them:
you must be an adult with your age clearly indicated on your blog to be here or i will hard block you.
i am anti censorship. if you don't like something you see here, use your discretion as an adult online and block or close the page.
it's not my job to teach adults how to treat other adults. if you are not treating me or others with kindness, courtesy, and mindfulness you will be hard blocked and i hope you take that as a note to reflect upon your own behavior.
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Itâs almost as if nobody wants to admit that they might not be prepared to do the work it takes to love somebody. And it can be laborious. To be intimate with someone who is flawed (which is the standard) requires us to expose our own flaws. We donât talk about the heavy responsibility of that. We donât talk about how weâre too lazy or too cowardly sometimes. We instead accuse love of being elusive. It isnât. It is omnipresent. It asks us to be better people. And sometimes we flat out refuse.
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I think ichigoâs five favorite positions to have you in are lotus so he can see that pretty mouth wide open while you moan, doggy so he can lean over your back and tell you how perfect you feel while squeezing your tit, missionary so he can fully envelop you and remind you how strong and protective he is, cowgirl so he can let you think youâre in control until he grabs your waist and starts fucking up into you, and hmmmâŚâŚspooning so he can hold you against his chest snd nibble your ear and lick your neck
tbh i'm a changed woman i don't believe in sex i'm chaste and born again
i also think he likes to spit right on your pussy while looking in your eyes with a calf hooked over his shoulders that are so broad your hips start to ache from how wide your legs are spread btw
kendalllll who reacts to the other's naked body the fastest, you or dante? ty for answering appreciate very much detail
honestly me bc im horny for muscles and he knows that and uses it to his advantage heâs truly flexing getting undressed, brushing his hand down his stomach, pushing his hair out of his face so his bicep bulges line heâs evil
tbh quick draw reacts pretty fast to me too especially if im just like naked and not naked for sex reasons he loves to make them for sex reasons
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takes place in the where i end and you begin universe. dante x f!reader. first meeting, wound tending. wc: 4k
Itâs the dead of summer the first time you meet the youngest son of Sparda.
Cicadas chirp their instinctive melody as you step through the knee-high grass that borders the furthest reaches of the property your family home lies on. You wince when a particularly prickly weed brushes against your bare leg but decide not to make a big deal of it, sliding the headphones attached to your portable disc player over your ears. The stinging pain against your leg dissipates as the low beat in your ears covers the noise of the rest of the world.
Sighing in contentment, you begin to walk toward the dilapidated workshop nobody else in your family thinks about in the distance.
Itâs rare you get time like this to yourself. Between your siblings, summer tutoring, the endless list of expectations your grandfather adds to every day, and the worst thing of all, etiquette classes, your time is occupied sun up to sun down and even after that.
Blessedly, on this sun-drenched afternoon your tutor cancelled. This has rewarded you with several free and unoccupied hours to simply exist instead of perform. No advanced math you scratch your head while looking at and no languages that your tongue struggles to form the syllables of.
Itâll be worth it eventually, youâre sure, but itâs annoying for now. Youâre sixteen and all you want to do is enjoy the days that tick by so fast between when school ends and begins, knowing that an itchy wool skirt and a button down shirt is all that waits on the other side of August.
Sitting down cross legged, you listen to the music and lift your palm toward the ceiling, encouraging the energy in your body to flow to the ends of your fingertips.
This is why you escape to the farthest reaches of your home. Itâs the safest place to practice harnessing this strange power that exists inside of you.
Youâve tried to read about it but itâs not exactly normal to stomp up to a librarian and ask where the section of books about strange energy that makes your hands feel weird is at.
This has left you to figure it out on your own whenever the time and privacy present themselves.
Maintaining focus on the task at hand, quite literally, you clear your mind of distractions and breathe in and out. Your energy surges and flashes, a spark of something emitting a soft glow through your fingers.
Itâs a mystery what youâre supposed to do next but you follow the way you feel, channeling more energy into the palm of your hand and then your wrist and arm until your concentration is broken by the sensation of something brushing against your leg.
Considering the possibility it may be a snake or a wild animal, you yelp in surprise, ripping your headphones off of your ears, leaning forward to try and make out what it could be.
You hear something shift against the floor and then you hear a groan, deep and low, coming from the chest of whoever made it.
Thereâs a man in here.
Eyes widening, you look around until you spot a heavily breathing mass lying mere inches away from rusted tools and rotting planks of wood. Leaning closer to get a better look, the man lifts his hand to push out in your general direction, leaving you skittering away holding your hand against your chest.
âIâm sorry!â
Whipping his head upward to stare at you upon hearing your clearly startled apology, the realization that this is not a man but a boy despite his size hits you all at once. His face is round with youth, full lips grimacing as he shakily lifts his arm and points a gun in your direction.
Gasping, you back away further until youâre pressed against the doorframe you walked through just moments ago.
Nobody has ever pointed a weapon at you before and you sincerely hope they never will again. Your heart beats so rapidly it feels like itâs going to burst out, limbs freezing and pinning you in place as you wait to see what his next move will be.
The stranger winces, dropping his arm and groaning in clear pain sending his gun skittering across the knotty wood floor.
âYouâre hurtâŚâ you murmur, crawling across the dirty ground, toward him.
âNo Iâm not,â he hisses when he moves to back himself against the wooden wall, squeezing his eyes shut to keep from wincing once again.
Rising to your feet, you hold your hands out to indicate youâre no threat.
âWe have a first aid kit in the house if you can wait just a minute for me to go get it.â
âNo.â
âIt will only take a minute, I can run really fas-â
âI said no. Get out and donât come back.â
âIâm not going to do that,â you reply simply, reaching to yank the partially opened door fully open, drenching the dark shed in sunlight.
You catch a full look at him from over your shoulder.
He is a proverbial giant compared to the small shed. Youâve never seen anyone his size, much less someone who is likely around your age, but all you really notice is how sunken his face looks. His complexion is sallow, highlighted by the soft light silver color of the hair flopping over his squinting eyes.
You also notice that heâs shirtless with a bright red jacket spread out beneath him, wearing only boots and baggy pants. Looking away quickly, you sprint toward the back door to the house, trouncing through the high grass and the garden until you skid to a stop in the kitchen. Opening the cabinet you know holds the first aid kit, you rush back out the door and close it tightly, hoping nobodyâs home to be nosy.
Certain you arenât being followed, you run back to the shed, out of breath by the time you reach it, practically falling to your knees at his side.
Dropping the kit on the ground, you flip it open and scan the contents for antiseptic ointment, digging through novelty bandages and gauze pads.
âWhere are you injured?â you ask, attention averted from him so you donât notice his scowling.
âI told you not to come back.â
Shaking your head, you finally turn to look at him, eyebrows raised.
âWell, I did,â you start, nodding toward his arm.
âShow me where youâre hurt, please.â
Unenthusiastically, he holds his arm close to his body.
You hum to yourself, digging through your mental bag of tricks to see if you can find a way to soften him even slightly, settling on small talk.
âWhatâs your name?â
Scoffing, he looks down at you. âWhy do you care?â
Despite the bad attitude, he finally extends his arm, eyes remaining narrowed.
âYou donât have to be rude,â you mutter under your breath, pushing the first aid kit aside a tad more forcefully than necessary until you remember heâs hurt and probably has far more reason to be irritable than you.
With a sharp exhale, you lean toward his extended arm, brows furrowing when you realize this is a gouge too deep to simply bandage.
âIâm going to have to, uh, stitch that,â you point at his arm, miming the motion of putting thread through a needle with your hands. âLet me go inside and grab my sewing kit.â
âDonât come back this time.â
Temper flaring, you ball your fists and lean toward him.
âWhy donât you just lay there and be quiet? I donât know what your problem is, Iâm only trying to help!â
Rising to your feet, you turn on your heel and stomp toward the open door. The stranger watches your movements, still unsure if youâre friend or foe, breathing heavier as the pain in his arm surges through his body.
This situation is so fucked up.
He can heal himself when he isnât weak from hunger and lack of sleep. Unfortunately, thatâs the exact state heâs in, leaving him to bleed alone and hope his wound doesnât get infected.
Sighing, he lies back down, lifting his good arm to cover his eyes.
He can handle this on his own if he just gets a little crafty and rests for just a little longer, like he was before you so rudely woke him up with your little flashlight act.
Recalling how he ended up here, he wonders if the demon he was fighting two days ago is still around. Suddenly more alert than ever, he removes his arm from his eyes and sits up, grateful that the kind of beast that thing was only tends to lurk at night.
The sound of your footsteps alert him and he sits halfway up, still covering his sensitive eyes to hide them from the sun.
âOkay, back.â
Paying no mind to his frustrated grunt, you find yourself on your knees beside him once more, unwinding the heaviest thread you could find in your kit while you place the largest needle in your collection between your teeth.
âSince nothing I says convinces you, do what youâre here for and leave me alone.â
Shrugging, you reach for the needle to thread it.
âFine.â
You agreed far too easily to mean it. Even if he barely knows you, itâs obvious that you donât take instruction well.
âLay back and give me your arm,â you order now that the needle is threaded, holding your free hand out.
The young man obliges, letting you manipulate the positioning until his arm is across your lap, giving you a clear view of what youâre working with. You grimace looking at the red flesh and the dried blood, stomach turning when you envision how badly infected this could get without attention.
Reaching around the ground, you find the bottle of antiseptic you carried back and pop the lid open with your thumb, pouring it over the sizable gash.
He hisses in response, kicking his booted feet like a child.
âThat hurts!â
You look up at him through your eyelashes, mouth set in an unimpressed line. âYou look like you can handle it.â
Just how old is this guy? He looks like heâs your age, maybe a bit older, but he acts like heâs a surly middle schooler. His dramatics continue for only a few minutes more, ceasing when you hold the needle inches away from his skin.
Itâs apparent to him that youâre anxious, shoulders hunched and eyebrows furrowed.
âAre you okay?â
You hum an affirmative response, lowering the needle and poking it through his skin. It hurts less than he expected, the poke lasting only a second. He wouldnât have reacted anyway, using most of his energy on his previous display.
His eyes watch you drag the needle from one side of his wound to the other, your fingertips reminding him what he witnessed when he first woke up.
âWhat were you doing earlier?â
You tilt your head to the side, keeping your eyes where they need to be to get this done.
âWhat do you mean?â
âWith your fingers, the light woke me up.â
âOh, uh,â you start awkwardly, trying to keep your attention on the needle youâre currently pulling through the separated flaps of his skin. âShoot, I donât know if Iâm doing this right.â
âFirst time?â
You shrug. âHuman flesh is different from a needlepoint canvas.â
âYou didnât answer my question,â he presses, hissing as a particularly tender spot has thread that isnât appropriate for this task dragged across it.
âYes I did,â you argue back, eyes narrowing as you lean in closer to inspect how poor of a job youâre doing.
âNot that one smart ass, the other one.â
âYou have absolutely no manners, did you know that?â
âAnd you have too many of them,â he argues, pointing to his arm. âOr maybe not enough considering youâre performing surgery on a guy you donât even know.â
He has a point so you donât argue, aware of just how much trouble youâd be in if one of your grandparents or siblings were to stumble upon this little scenario.
âI donât know what I was doing. Itâs just this thing that happens when I focus really hard and, ugh,â you cut yourself off.
âIt doesnât matter.â
Oh but it does. Even through the haze of pain, youâve piqued his interest for the moment.
âKeep talking, it hurts less when you do.â
Your face softens slightly even if you donât look his way, comforted by the idea that you have comforted him even a little bit.
âWhat do you want me to talk about?â
He shrugs, taking a deep breath. âWhatever you want.â
Shifting where you sit with your legs tucked beneath you, your mind rushes to pick something you think heâd be interested in. He probably wouldnât care about the book youâre reading nor the song you were listening to when you found him. You donât really know how to describe the little energy situation so you pick what you know best.
âWhy did the cookie go to the hospital?â
Groaning, he lays back, keeping his arm in your lap.
âDonât say whatever youâre about to say next.â
âHe was feeling crummy,â you proceed regardless, giggling mostly at yourself upon completion.
âI said talk, not tell me the worst joke on earth.â
You shrug flippantly which masks your surprise at how quickly youâve managed to close up the wound, albeit poorly. The tools are wrong and your knowledge is limited to stitching bunnies and polite sayings on canvases for your grandmother to frame but you are a little bit impressed regardless.
âIâm done.â
The young man sits up halfway to inspect your work, eyes flitting from his arm to your face. It catches him off guard to get a good look at you, a bit surprised that youâre as cute as you are considering the attitude you keep giving him.
He supposes an attitude like that is something only a cute girl can get away with and you did decide to help him, the pain in his arm stinging but now the wound is clean and closed.
âMy nameâs Dante,â he finally divulges, sitting all the way up and looking down at you.
You smile at him, patting his arm that he has yet to withdraw.
âWell thank you for letting me help you.â
He nods, an awkward silence falling until you decide to try your luck and see how much more information you can get out of him.
âHow did you end up here?â
Sighing, he takes a moment to decide how much of the truth to tell you. He was fighting a demon on a well paying job, bit off more than he could chew on his own, stumbled around for several miles and decided to hide inside the first abandoned structure he could find.
âI, uhâŚwas in a fight not too far from here and needed to find a place to recover.â
You nod, hand still on his arm.
âThis used to be my grandfatherâs workshop before he got too busy to keep woodworking, I usually come out here to be by myself so it surprised me to find you.â
âDo you live with your grandparents?â
âYeah, my parents sort of just didnât want to do the whole mom and dad thing so they brought us to my momâs parents to handle. Iâve been here since I was five.â
Thatâs a mere few years younger than he was when he lost his own family. He frowns, shifting uncomfortably.
âSorry.â
You shrug.
âItâs okay, it happened and I canât change it. Me and my sisters do just fine here even if the expectations are high but you donât really want to hear about all that.â
On the contrary, he sort of thinks that he might, leaning in closer.
âYou can keep talking if you want.â
Shaking your head, you look up at him nervously.
âDo you have anywhere to go? I can have my grandpa drive you there when he gets home tonight.â
Dante shrugs, suddenly feeling awkward. âUh, not really but donât worry about it.â
You tilt your head to the side curiously, eyeing him up and down.
âHow old are you?â
âSixteen,â he responds flatly.
Same as you. Good to know.
âCan I at least convince you to come inside and eat?â
âI donât think thatâs such a good idea,â he admits, nervous and armed with the knowledge that the demon he was hunting may still be active in the area.
âYou wonât heal if you donât eat.â
That stubborn streak you presented earlier flashes itself once again. You continue to look up at him, that oh-so-cute face softening his resolve with each bat of your lashes.
Cute girls are the worst thing in the world.
With a groan, he withdraws his arm from your lap and crosses it awkwardly over his bare chest.
âFine,â he acquiesces. âOne meal.â
The smile that crosses your face when you get your way is as sweet as any youâve ever seen. He wonders how many times youâve ever truly been meaningfully told no and if heâs just another in a long line of cute girl victims.
-
You left him to sleep in the shed until a little after sunset, returning with a t-shirt thatâs slightly too small for him of unknown origin and to drag him in through the back doors of the house while demanding he take his shoes off at the door.
He, of course, obliged you. Itâs the least he can do now with all youâve done for him today. Following you obediently, the two of you walk in tandem until you fully enter the kitchen as a pair.
You wave your hand in his direction while the people he can obviously tell are your grandparents and your two sisters all turn to look at him.
âThis is my friend Dante. Is it alright if he joins us for dinner tonight?â
If looks could kill, the young man would certainly have dropped dead by now thanks to the venomous expression on your grandfatherâs face. Heâs no stranger to this type of reaction, drawing ire from most of the adults he encounters based off of his rough edges yet the scorn in this expression is something different.
Itâs as if the man can tell that Dante has a budding crush on his precious granddaughter.
âWhere did you meet him?â he asks, voice practically dripping with disappointment.
You refuse to answer.
âCan he stay for dinner?â
Your grandmother intervenes, stepping away from her husband to approach the young man standing next to you, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder even if he flinches when she does. Her eyes travel from his face to his arm and widen when she spots the gash, deciding to mention it later to diffuse the encounter.
âOf course, your friends are always welcome here,â she insists, offering him a smile similar to your own. âCome on dear, why donât I show you the bathroom so you can wash up?â
Your eyes donât move from your grandfather even as your newfound friend is escorted into the long hallway by your grandmother.
âItâs nice to meet you, Dante. Donât mind him, heâs just overprotective of her. Sheâs his pride and joy and a very good girl.â
If he reads too much into the implication of the womanâs words, he may go crazy so he simply nods and remembers that he does have manners.
âThank you, Iâm sorry for the short notice.â
She once again smiles at him as they arrive in front of the hall bathroom. Reaching for the handle, she swings the door open.
âItâs not a problem at all. The dining room is right over,â she points to a room adjacent to the hall, across from the bathroom. âThere. Weâll be waiting whenever youâre done.â
-
Itâs after the meal when he stands outside of the heavy oak door of your grandfatherâs study, his hand gripping the opposite injured forearm while overhearing what is clearly an argument between yourself and the man who is raising you.
âHe has nowhere to go!â
Your stubbornness is not reserved only for Dante, something heâs strangely amused to discover.
âLower your voice,â your grandfather responds.
âNo! I do everything you ask me to, all I want is this one thing and you wonât even budge a little. Heâs hurt, heâs hungry. He needs a shower, he stinks!â
Dante sniffs himself hearing your elevated exchange, nose wrinkling slightly when his scent hits. So he does stink. And heâs tired and heâs hungry and heâs entirely alone in the world. He really doesnât wanna stay but he canât deny the allure of a bed and a hot shower, the luxury of a hot and nutritious meal perhaps spoiling him enough he wants to be further indulged.
âOne night.â
You stomp your foot audibly and he imagines your eyebrows furrowed, your narrow eyed glare.
âDid you see that thing on his arm? Thatâs not going to heal in one night.â
Looking down at the angry, red, poorly stitched gash he unfortunately has to agree. Heâs already been dealing with the pain for a couple of days and could deal with it for longer.
âThen weâll take him to the hospital tomorrow.â
âGrandpa, no! He doesnât need that, he just needs to stay here for a few days at least,â you retort quickly.
Dante sighs. He doesnât want that either considering what could possibly still be lurking even if it may be for the best if he sticks around the area to take the thing out.
Maybe thatâs what heâll do. Stay here long enough to stake out, collect the demonic bastard's head and then go collect his bounty money. Youâll be a distant memory before he knows it.
âOne night.â
âThree nights,â you argue.
âOne.â
He hears you sniffle through the door, your voice cracking when you speak.
âPlease,â you beg, sniffling again. âI donât ask for anything and heâs hurt so bad. I promise Iâll take some extra courses or do some extra work or whatever you want me to but he needs to stay here.â
It has been a very long time since Dante has had someone fight for him this hard.
Heâs made friends throughout his life though theyâve been fleeting and heâs mostly only ever managed to get them hurt as a result of their association. Even Nell, the woman he lived with for years who he came to see as a mother, ended up dying when he couldnât get to her before a demon could.
Itâs a really, really bad idea for him to stay longer than it takes to get his job done and heal his arm. A good night's rest and a good meal tomorrow will likely be enough to give him the energy to regenerate. He wishes he could or wouldâve told you this, even if a strange feeling has welled in his chest listening to you.
You really do care. Maybe not about him specifically but about his situation and thatâs enough for him to honor your wishes, whatever they may be, until he disappears.
âHe can stay until the gash is gone,â your grandfather finally agrees. âBut if you slip up even a tiny bit while heâs here, youâll be dealing with me about it.â
What does slipping up look like for an alleged very good girl?
Dante sighs, conflicted.
The door to the study swings open and you peek around the corner, reaching to wipe your puffy eyes. Those tears donât appear to have been crocodile and once again, that strange feeling wells inside of the young man who looks at you curiously.
âYou can stay until your arm is better,â you confirm with a watery smile, shutting the door behind you and entering the hallway.
He smiles, gratefully, and you think about how cute he is when he actually does smile and not scowl or roll his eyes or glare.
Reaching to loop your arm in his, you pull him down the hallway until you get to the door at the very end.
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