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Tender Lover

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You’re glad that Risotto carefully considered the prospects that you offer when choosing a partner for your first team mission. Your stand is powerful, yet you’re acutely aware of its drawbacks; from what Risotto tells you, your partner bolsters those weaknesses perfectly. The concept excites you, finally ready to prove to La Squadra that you’re worth your weight. The odds are against you as it is, being the only female member that Risotto has pitied enough to take under his wing. When the other members heard of your mission placement and partner, you couldn’t help but notice the concerned glances they exchanged among themselves. What exactly was this ‘Melone’ like? No one gives you the consideration of a warning, and you’re too intimidated by Risotto to speak when not spoken to.

You’ll just have to wait as you’ve been instructed to do, legs crossed on the plush, purple couch beneath you. Any sign of weakness or fear must be suppressed, even as you wait patiently alone in the hang-out’s parlor, if you want any modicum of respect from your teammates. Being docile and obedient doesn’t suit your style, considering you’ve worked your way up from poverty to be here. Working under them is a necessary evil, though, if you want to be paid fairly for the work you’ve already gone into debt to accomplish.

You maintain your poker face as the door opens in front of you, creaking as it makes way for who you can only assume to be your partner. He’s not what you expected, his lavender hair and gentle gait making him seem more like a polite tactician than the fearsome miscreant he’s been made out to be. The metallic briefcase by his side is reminiscent of a salaryman’s, though as he closes the door behind him, you realize it’s adorned by keys and a screen like a computer.

It’s only after he spots your form, long legs crossed with farcical stolid body language, that his expression changes from tepidness to uninhibited provocation. Your gut squirms under his lecherous gaze, though you give no indication of it. As he approaches you, you decide to let him be the first to speak.

“(Y/N),” he states simply, his deep voice tightening your throat when combined with his towering stature. “Indeed, I thought your name sounded… feminine.”

You funnel your tension into the muscles of your jaw, hoping it wasn’t noticeable. “Melone, was it?”

His eyes widen for just a moment at the sound of his name on your lips. He’s not afraid to openly scan your body, unconcerned with decency or politeness. Your lip curls slightly as his eyes linger on your calves, making you wish you wore anything but this skirt. Who does this guy think he is, making you feel like a piece of meat?

“Hm, yes…” he mutters, obviously distracted. You fold your arms across your chest in an attempt to maintain your dignity. There was something exciting, though, about the way he widens his stance and peers down at you.

“The mission,” you snap, trying to get his mind back on track to more important matters. “I’m told you have the sample we need.”

He hums, apparently pleased that you mentioned it. “Yes, it was an easy grab. Do you know what it means?”

“An easy grab?” you blink, face contorting with apprehensive confusion.

“No,” Melone sneers, though his tone is more clinical than diminutive. “The sample.”

You don’t want to admit that Risotto hardly gave you any information other than his name. His eyes prod you for answers as he crouches to your level, the proximity of your faces quite uncomfortable. He’s impressed at your cool collectiveness, used to women far more petrified by his presence.

“Not particularly,” you answer, your voice as smooth as you can manage.

Melone’s tone giddies, looking with the eye unobstructed by his hair at you with jovial brightness. The expression is strange on the rather scholarly man, only making you more uncomfortable. He leans closer to you, leaning his weight onto his hand on the couch by your hip, his head tilting to drape his hair out of the way of his full vision.

You don’t dare move, something about this guy keeping you pinned in place. Your breath hitches as his palm sheathes your lower abdomen, the heat of it meeting your bare skin. Your teeth grit as you stare daggers into his eyes, too fascinated by your belly to meet your gaze.

“W-what--“ you begin to bark. You’re interrupted by his lips pressing into yours, though his eyes remain open and oddly perceptive. His tongue slides across your teeth, then winds its way across your tongue, before running it along the roof of your mouth.

You throw his chest away from you with a jolt of your palm, his breastbone providing ample leverage as you knock him onto his knees. You scowl at him as you move to sit on the couch, despising the way he smiles at you from below.

“Your teeth,” he beams, his eyes too excited for someone who just had his advances refused. “No cavities, no fillings.”

You stare down at him as you wipe spit from your lips, finally rattled enough to express fiery bafflement. He prattles on like a doctor recording his assessment, collected and professional.

“Mucous membranes moist and pink,” he continues, rising onto his knees to take your face into his hands. You squirm, but you’re no match for his strength, accentuated by his apparent excitement. You clench your fist against the couch cushion as he rubs the meeting of your jaw and your skull before sliding his hands towards your neck.

He can’t help himself, springing from the floor to straddle himself into your lap. He grabs your wrists and pins them behind you, your legs kicking out with the weight. He hardly seems affected as he waits for you to submit, which you know better than to prolong.

After you relax, he brings your wrist to his lips. With a long, pensive drag of his tongue, he traces the sensation of your pulse. You keep yourself collected, the sensation of sticky saliva on the inside of your wrist sending a shiver through your spine and into the base of your skull.

“Radial pulse 2+, regular, heart rate 72,” he groans, titillated by the prospects you apparently offer. You bring your knees together despite his weight on your thighs.

You writhe until he releases your wrist, your fist slamming against his back instinctively. He relents, easing some of his weight onto his knees in an act of apparent mercy. You try to think of something to say, anything, but nothing leaves your throat but a broken murmur.

“You’re perfect so far. How old are you? You look a little young.”

You scoff, not sure if you should be insulted. His finger trails down your breastbone and onto your abdomen, poking and prodding. He knows you’ll answer him, as you have no other choice.

“(Your Age),” you grunt, tensing the muscles of your abdomen under his inspection.

“Hm…” he hums as he circles your gut with his hands. “Bellissimo (Beautiful).”

You buck your hips under him, catching him off-guard. He shifts his weight to one knee, finally freeing you enough to jerk your knee upwards. Your target is obvious as Mellone’s legs open to straddle you, much to his amusement.

He falls away from you to avoid the strike, sliding back onto the floor. His palms capture your knees and presses them into the floor, inhibiting further movement. He chuckles with anticipation, his eyes feral and ready for something you can’t predict.

“Such strong conviction, such a clear head… you will make a fantastic teacher,” he murmurs, looking up at you with what must be adoration tucked within his green eyes. You should do something, anything, to get away from this creep—but, something stops you. A fear of retaliation, perhaps? If he’s not afraid to do this after just meeting you, who knows what else he would do?

He spreads your legs with a smooth pry, revealing plenty to him at eye level. Your face flushes with the realization of his intentions and the intense, frenzied look on his face. As you snap your fists towards him, he catches them with ease, pressing them by your side as you grimace under the pressure of his fingers. He keeps your legs open with his shoulders, ironically moving his face closer to you to maintain your position.

Gallinetta (Cheeky girl) ,” he hisses, his voice bubbling with excitement. “You were doing so well for me.”

You scowl at him. Despite looking down at him, you’re easily overpowered and perpetually dominated. You relax your knees, having no choice but to accept this. You try to maintain what grace you have left, the aching in your wrists not worth the struggle.

He senses your obedience, his eyes glistening happily as he releases your wrists. His hands return to the insides of your thighs, rounding his palm against their softness. He caresses your hips, sliding the hem of your skirt to reveal a peek of color between your legs.

Whatever he sees, he must be happy with. You avert your gaze towards the classical painting to your right, trying to ignore the heat that’s building deep in your pelvis.

The muscles of your thighs tense for a moment as he gently slides your panties out of the way of his full view of your vulva. You bring your arms to your chest, trying to find comfort despite feeling horribly exposed. Why was he doing this? Why would Risotto pair you with someone who would do this? You begin to regret reaching out to La Squadra, the embarrassment starting to overtake your dogmatism.

It’s only after he glides a confident pad of his finger along your slit that you begin to warm up to his ministrations. You didn’t notice how badly you’d wanted him to touch you, the cold air against your wetness uncomfortable. He grins widely at your reactions, particularly as his finger circles your clitoris. He mumbles something in Italian that you can’t decipher, your gut aching with sharp guilt and regrettable neediness.

“You’re the best host yet,” he grins, the sing-song of his voice making his comment a genuine compliment. You’re not sure how to take it.

You don’t have much time to consider your response as his tongue slides from your entrance to your clit, careful and tactful. You dig your toes into the carpet, the sensation foreign and delightful.

He huffs a breath through his nose as he tastes you, the heat of it undulating your hips. He’s entranced, the smile visible despite his mouth held agape. You can’t help but stare as he brings a finger to your opening, pushing it in a bit too fast.

You grimace as he stretches your opening with a hook of his finger, his tongue gliding into your canal with a flick. His eyes roll towards the back of his head, taking in every modicum of scent and taste that he can muster from you. As he withdraws, his lips remain parted and slicked with your fluids. His tongue darts out to take the remnants into his mouth, cleaning his finger with a swift suck.

“Cervical fluid thickened and plentiful. Pelvic support adequate. Basal temperature increased. Luteinizing hormone and progesterone elevated,” his words tumble from his lips in excitement, almost star-struck by you.

“You’re perfect, mia tesora (my treasure),” he breathes, his words shaky with anticipation. “You’re in excellent health.”

You can barely catch your breath, nonetheless form coherent words. He rises to pin you under his embrace, his forearms on each side of your head as he leans in close to your heated face.

“The… the mission,” you assert once more, your one-track mind bringing a humble chuckle from his chest.

“You don’t understand,” Melone slurs, overtaken by the promise of what’s before him. “You could be the only reason this mission succeeds.”

His words pique your interests, meeting his gaze in earnest. He picks up on your proclivities.

“(Y/N), only you and you alone can fulfill our purpose and lead us to victory,” he persuades, his tone growing cooler and more calculated as he assesses your reaction.

“How?” you manage to utter, bringing your knees together slowly despite the stickiness between your thighs.

“Cultivate my stand,” he asserts. “Give him your fertile body and nurture it.”

You’re still confused, your head spinning from oxytocin and hyperventilation. He ushers himself back onto your lap and takes your face into his hands, his urgency increasing your blood pressure. He notices and works to relax you, stroking your hair and forcing his expression to soothe.

“The mission relies on this. You have to accept,” he pressures, drinking in the scent of virility that seeps from your sweat. Your pheromones wetten his mouth with saliva, sweet and captivating.

You want to know more, what to prepare for. Instead, with the success of the mission dangled in front of you and the feeling of exposure, you can only utter a single word.


Melone hurls himself from you, careening in excitement. You’re almost flattered, if it weren’t for the strange circumstances you find yourself in. He waves a hand towards the bulbous, grey console by his feet, rushed and tense.

The unit bursts to life, a series of tendrils forming into legs before your eyes as it works to balance itself on all fours. You bring your knees to your chest, avoiding the look of the beady yellow eyes that form at the base of the console. Mellone slides a glass vial into a compartment on the surface, filled with blood.

“Relax,” he reassures smoothly, moving to sit next to you on the couch. The computer-like stand moves towards you quickly, text filling its screen in waves. He takes you into an authoritative embrace, holding you still. “You’ll do perfectly. You’re without flaw.”

You shudder with his words; you know he’s flattering you hollowly just to get what he wants, but that doesn’t stop a blush from crossing your face. Melone uses his grip on you to usher you onto your side, then onto your abdomen. He brushes the hair out of your face as you nestle your cheek against his thigh, craning your neck to witness the strange stand at your feet. Melone smooths his palm down your spine slowly, pushing your pelvis into the cushion of the couch as your legs straighten.

You yelp as the machine hops onto the couch and between your legs. The shift in weight widens your eyes, staring ahead at the closed door by your side. The stand composes your hips into the air and sets you on your knees, curving your back to get a better view. The stand is already intimately familiar with the possibilities, but with Melone’s heightened excitement it takes its time to assess you thoroughly.

“Melone,” you utter, fear overshadowing your confidence and dedication to the mission. “What—”

Your words are choked off by the alien sensation of a tendril lapping between your labia, silky and insistent. It’s announcing its presence in a rare act of consideration, though the kindness doesn’t last long. You grit your teeth and dig your cheekbone into Melone, the tentacle slipping inside you with a twist. Melone hushes you and gives you rhythmic pats on the crown of your head.

The tentacle bulks inside you, a more defined head appearing at the tip of the shaft, ridged and metallic. Baubles and bumps rub against you as you squirm, the increase in girth pushing your already tempted limits. You take the fabric of Melone’s pants into your fists as the stand holds your hips still, pushing you into position unforgivingly.

“You have to stay calm,” Melone murmurs. “Stress is bad for the baby.”

You wince at the word as Melone cups the top of your hand with his palm. He coaxes your grip to relax, enfolding his fingers between your own, giving you something soft to dig your frustrations into. The warmth of his hand is undeniably comforting despite the electric sensation between your legs.

Babyface fills you completely, flush with your entrance. You breathe heavily, keeping your nerves together as the head juts against your cervix. Melone mutters pleasantries as you relax the muscles of your pelvic floor, accepting the length and girth as best you can.

A strange sensation captures your attention. From the base of Babyface’s cock, a bulging roundness enters the tight ring of muscle of your entrance. It climbs its way through the shaft, the hardness of it unsettling. Melone urges you to keep quiet, warning you that the other squad members might hear; the idea mortifies you and you force your pressured moans back into your gut.

“Good,” he sneers, his tone darkening.

You clench your eyes shut as Babyface locks you into place, a harsh growth pressing against the bones of your pelvis at the base of its cock. Its knot inflates with intermittent pumps, expanding inside you. Even if you tried to move away, you couldn’t, your bodies connected in the most animalistic of ways. From the tip of Babystand’s cock, a marble-sized gelatinous orb presses against your cervix. You bite your lip to keep yourself content, the pressure aching deeply within you.

Melone’s comfort, just as it’s needed most, is horribly absent. You careen with the alien sensation of the embryo prying its way through your cervix, stretching your opening unforgivingly. When you finally cry out, the discomfort searing your insides, Melone merely slaps his palm against your mouth. You contemplate biting him, but decide it’s against your best interests.

The embryo enters your uterus with a jolt after crossing the tension of the threshold, suddenly surging into you without pause. You bury your face in Melone’s thigh, a fiery ache settling in your gut as Babyface’s knot begins to shrink. Its job is done-- at least for now.

Even after he pulls out, the sensation of presence doesn’t leave you. Babyface allows you to sink your hips into the couch, crouching as you absorb the sensations that flood your mind. The sound of Melone’s sultry chuckle almost infuriates you, if not for the strange electricity that lightnings through your nerves.

It’s… stupefying .

Melone captures your shoulders and hauls you onto your knees, your palm moving to rest just under your belly button. He releases his grip on your mouth, sensing your growing obedience. You crane your neck to stare at him incredulously, meeting his flourishing gaze hesitantly. From deep within your gut, something announces its presence without hesitation. Your head spins as blood flows from your brain into your belly, nurturing something that already begins growing inside you.

“This won’t take long,” Melone insists. You turn onto your back with the increasing pressure in your belly, thumping against the couch. He supports your back with his chest, cradling you to keep you in place. He places two fingers along your carotid, tentatively taking your pulse as your breath quickens with the overwhelming sensations that flood your thoughts.

Melone doesn’t lie. From the moment that his stand withdrew from you, something began to ache and stretch within your gut. Within just a minute, you have to heave to keep your diaphragm working under the pressure and duress of the expansion of your belly. Melone offers no sympathy except for the stability behind you. You raise your knees to plant your feet onto the couch cushion as your belly rounds and expands before your eyes, the skin bulging with a deep, throbbing ache.

As your belly protrudes, Melone slides his hand from your neck to your belly, taking in the sensation of his progeny germinating and flourishing within you. You feel an excited growl of approval from his chest, his fingers fanning as your belly quickly bulges to stretch the waistline of your pants. A desperate, gasping moan froths from your chest as you throw your head back onto Melone, staring at the ceiling to ground yourself.

Panic overtakes you, reality falling from your grasp through your fingers. How could this be happening? This isn’t possible; you can’t fathom a biological actuality that would explain the situation you find yourself in. You shudder with what must be fear that nips at the back of your throat, crying out when the baby grows with a spurt.

“Shh… (Y/N),” he murmurs into your ear, his molten tone quickly quieting you into pathetic whimpers. “Not much longer. Stay calm.”

Time passes too slowly, and at three minutes your hips begin to shift, accommodating the rapid opening of your cervix. Oxytocin floods your rationality, a smile growing across your face as you finally dare to glance down at your belly. Sweat dots your hairline as you finally accept the baby, a tingling pleasure sweeping over your nerves like electricity. Tendrils of its presence weaken your legs and numb you, static spreading from your groin.

Endorphins wrack your sensibility, confidence building in your mind and soul as you curl your toes into the fabric beneath them. After just thirty more seconds, you feel your breasts become sore and needy, filling out with anticipation. Melone takes one of your breasts into his waiting palm, cupping the heaviness as he pulls your top aside to expose your nipple. As he twists his fingers curiously around the nub, inklings of milk drip onto his fingers.

He grins in approval, swiping the milk across his bottom lip before sampling it with his curious tongue. It’s sweet with prolactin. “You’re doing so well. Keep breathing.”

You do as he asks happily, keeping your breathing even and regular. You hadn’t noticed that you’d been holding your breath until then, the flood of oxygen lightening your head. Your hands find Melone’s chest as you reach behind you, taking his outfit into your fist. He tolerates it, admiring your tenacity in the face of such tumultuous circumstances.

Four minutes have passed, and with each passing second you question why you’ve never done this before. Your pelvis is wrought with uninhibited adrenaline, exciting you and widening your hazy grin. It’s like you were born for this, born to be bred and fulfill your very important mission for Melone. You furrow your brows as your shaky hand drapes over the peak of your belly. Your eyes widen as you feel your baby press his hand against yours-- a greeting, his first sign of true life. You slouch into Melone, your legs widening by their own accord, taking in the feeling of your baby writhing in your belly beneath your touch.

“Yes, relax. Get ready, yes… perfect…” he murmurs, perhaps almost as excited as you are. His words soothe you to your core, the rush of hormones combining with the expansion of your belly overwhelming you. Yet you’ve never felt more human as you recoil against the first true contraction tighten the muscles of your womb.

Melone murmurs pleasantries into your ear as you near the fifth and final minute of the incubation. A deep, primal desire urges you to push, relieving the pressure of the contraction with a sting of regret. Melone swipes beads of sweat from your forehead as you laugh almost in disbelief at the pleasure that singes deep within you.

Your belly relents with waves of contractions, something settling into place gradually as you hold yourself together as best you can. Melone coaches your breathing genuinely as you writhe and twist with the forceful persuasion of the baby’s head pressing against your cervix.

Melone holds your lower jaw in his hand, eyes locked between your legs as you careen and moan with the pressure. Your belly undulates with the baby’s movements and your womb working to expel it from you, gratification washing over you with each pulse. Instinct guides your every movement, preparing for the baby’s release.

Di molto …!”

Your eyes roll as the baby’s shoulders pass your threshold. He easily slides out of you, your passage waiting and ready. You feel him pass through you, inch by inch. A wave of release comes over you as he makes his way out into the world, your belly shrinking slightly with the lack of presence. A part of you is sad to be without him inside you, despite the joy and pride that washes over the features of your face. Melone holds you tightly, grinning wider than you.

Soon after the pique of adrenaline dissipates from your body, exhaustion comes to replace it. You feel used and thoroughly appreciated, all of your energy and lifeblood dedicated to the successful procreation that supposedly guarantees the success of your mission. As far as you’re concerned, the mission is already a success as you glance between your legs and catch sight of the beautiful baby between your legs.

He’s unlike any newborn you’ve ever seen, but that doesn’t change the adoration that you feel for him. Instinct guides his gaze towards yours, curious pleated eyes finding your face. He smiles as he sits up, more independent than a human baby, ready to fulfill his own duties after you so bravely accomplished yours.

You’re speechless, barely able to catch your breath, as he extends a tiny, determined blue hand onto your thigh. He starts to crawl, heaving his weight up and over onto your belly. You greet him with open arms as he moves on all fours to rest on your chest, the spikes on his head having no effect on your numbed skin.

“B… beautiful,” you utter with a raspy voice, exertion taking its toll on you. You stroke the little one’s back as he settles into the softness of your chest. He’s tried too, his eyes barely open; after all, he has more work to do than you do now.

“What does ‘beautiful’ mean?” the baby asks, his voice bringing a hesitant tear to your eye. It isn’t strange to hear him speak, almost as if it were completely expected for your newborn to form coherent sentences.

“You,” you respond gently, patting his head with a delicate finger. “You are beautiful.”

The baby beams, the weight of him bringing you back down to Earth. Melone reaches out to him and rubs his cheek with his thumb.

“How do you feel about your mother?” Melone asks, the lilt to his voice adjusting to what a child enjoys hearing.

The baby considers for a moment before curling into you. The softness of his skin warms your belly where his absence left it cold.

“My mommy is the best mommy,” he answers confidently, rolling between your breasts happily. You nearly cry with his words, so proud and appreciative that you have earned the title of “mommy”.

“Good, good…” Melone mulls, taking one of his chubby, little feet between his finger and thumb. “Son, we’re going to teach you everything you need to know.”

He’s apparently enticed by the idea, already lining up questions for both of you. However, the most important thing on his mind takes precedence to all others.

“I’m hungry,” he whines, looking up at you pitifully. “What should I do?”

Melone releases his foot after assessing it curiously. You can’t take your eyes off of your baby as Melone swipes a drop of milk from your nipple onto his finger.

“You’re ready,” he affirms, though you’re not sure to whom he’s addressing. He offers your bud of milk to the baby, who laps it with an inquisitive flick of his tongue. His features brighten from hesitancy to excitement as he takes Melone’s finger into his mouth, suckling for more.

“Here,” Melone instructs, guiding him gently towards your breast. The baby releases Melone’s finger only to latch on to your nipple greedily, his hands balancing him as he closes his eyes to suckle.

You relax the crown of your head against Melone’s chest, your hand cradling the baby’s bottom as he feeds. Melone brushes stray hairs from your sweaty forehead, tender fingers easing you as the numbness of your skin begins to wear off. There’s no pain, though, only an awareness that you’re still in the same room you were in before despite it feeling foreign.

However, you’re a different person entirely.