#breeding program

He’s just so relieved to be alive. 

Even with beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead, his skin was nowhere as soaked as your panties, which were now hanging out casually betwixt your knees. Bent over, you could feel his perspiring brow rest on your ass. He signed blissfully, before pressing his sweaty palms against your buttocks, giving them a handful of squeezes each. 

Then he got back to work. Two thumbs parted your labia, his tongue plunging into your gap instead of lapping at your clit. You thought about diddling yourself. Then decided against it, not wanting to reach ecstasy quite yet. 

Alice was the one who jabbed him with the antivirus, you remembered, as Kaplan ate your pussy from the back. Your hands braced against glass. Thank God it was reinforced. The adrenaline had left your body, when you realized you were safe(r). Now it came roaring back in excitement at the soldier’s wet applications to your snatch. He should be thanking her. 

Where is she, anyway? With Matt?

Shoveling your essence into his beyond eager mouth, his tongue then extended further than expected.

Chad Kaplan hadn’t done anything so juvenile as lick his lips at the sight of you. Even though he’d been very, very interested since your introduction. He was a professional. It’d been an emergency. So you were pleasantly surprised you both shared Gorlin’s sign. Not that he would’ve guessed it, seeing as you both had been modest up until when he’d taken your face in his hands, kissed your forehead, and directly asked if he could perform cunnilingus. 

It was odd hearing someone who, to your knowledge, was normally so composed—even in a life or death situation—just lose himself completely. 

Kaplan’s (para)military, though. Or was. For an unethical pharmaceutical company. An onslaught of monsters and mutated people couldn’t shake him. 

An IT guy, you concluded, has to remain calm in emergencies. 

Just as you were pondering whether to grab his hair and throw yourself backwards on his face, he stopped. Neither of you spoke. Don’t be shy now, C.K. Then he licked your thigh. Tongue feeling wider than it had inside you. You chalked that up to the fact he’d been trying to stick it up there as deep as possible. (Make out with my cervix lol, ew.) It was pressed flat. Savoring you. 

A split second later you peeked down and spotted a bandaid on your left cheek. 

Oh yeah, I was injected, too. 

At some point. 

It was hard to keep track of everything that had happened since the train ride, your mind fuzzy with lust as it was. 

Your lover continued tentatively licking your thigh, like he was struggling to decide his next move. Frowning in confusion, but not reluctance, you noted his appendage was actually coiling around your leg. How freaking long is it? you thought, amazed as he dipped into your underwear. Comparing your initial discharge to the stuff he was getting straight from the source. Then he pulled your panties straight down your calves and dove in again. 

You almost yelped when he finally made you sit on his face. Tongue continuously writhing inside. Putting your faith in his uncanny strength, you lifted one hand from the window to cover your mouth. When you removed it, strands of drool connected your lips and fingers. Probably how Kaplan’s fingers would look if his mouth wasn’t engulfing your gash. The idea of getting digitally fucked made you shudder. Not quite in pleasure. His nails were really digging into your hips.  

Am I high? 

You were basically using him as a stool. He was sturdy. Still, you figured it was only polite to bend forward, so as not to cut off his air supply. Though something told you he’d hold his breath ad hoc. It was like he’d been born for this. To become a licker.

Licker. That word brought back a memory.

“Well,” a man in a white lab coat explained, “you owe us a Licker. With interest.” 

You tried to protest, but it was hard to be taken seriously restrained as you were, in stirrups and cuffs. Zero modesty. The staff seemed equally split between ignoring you and openly leering at your spread privates. And the cold, sterile room left your nipples ever hard. You couldn’t so much as shift an elbow to conceal them. 

At one point another doctor (?) sauntered in and cupped your vulva without warning. When he placed a thumb on your perineum, you begged him to remove it. Wary of his intentions. Nobody had done anything to really hurt (read bruise) you yet. Aside from the IV. No telling what was in it. 

You were hushed, told “you’re not getting penetrated so get your mind out of the gutter.” Then you noticed the syringe. 

“‘No penetration’?!”

“No digital penetration,” he drawled. “For now.”

Umbrella Corp only hired personnel that, if not ignorant, lacked ethics. Even when it came to obstetrics.  

Eyes wide, you saw what lay beyond the glass. Your rendezvous with Chad Kaplan wasn’t as consensual as you’d thought it was. He honestly liked you, though you believed he wouldn’t be doing this in front of an audience if he had a choice. In fact, if everything went according to plan, you figured, the former computer whiz would be too territorial to…

What? Let others around his nest? His mate?

Lickers didn’t generally attack each other, unless they were fighting over prey. Which you were, in a way. Though there wasn’t enough research into their mating habits. 

Hence why I’m here, you shuddered as Kaplan ground his nose into your taint. Another memory from your last encounter with an Umbrella employee flitted in.

“Welcome to the Licker Breeding Program.”  

Kaplan, of course, was no longer an employee. He was a test subject. Like you. 

Your juices were getting everywhere. Before his tongue finally withdrew, fast as a tape measure. You tried to settle your feet flat on the floor again, hands once again braced against the window. Like you were about to be subjected to a pat down. Kaplan paused again. Why, you didn’t know.  

It staved off an orgasm, though. Gave you time to ponder Alice and Matt’s location. With a sinking heart, you remembered Matt had been carted off to the Nemesis Program. Whether that was part of Umbrella’s propagation efforts, you couldn’t say. Probably something in “defense.” Hopefully he was in a far off lab. And ignorant of your degradation. 

An image of an amnesiac girl being unknowingly mounted by a mutated Matt popped into your head. This infernal corporation wanted your memories intact while you were being bred. Even if they initially had to sedate you. You couldn’t say the same for Alice, a skilled combatant. Even more reason to make her birth supersoldiers. 

Vaguely aware of Kaplan’s heavy breath, you actually rested your cheek against the window. Uncaring if it left a smudge. You reached down to pat his head. Then stopped when your fingers grazed his forehead. Unblinking, you slowly met his gaze. Kaplan’s forehead had begun to split. 

No visible brain matter yet, but solid claws jutted out of where his fingernails should’ve lain flat. Blood beaded on your scratchmarks. It was a testament to his remaining humanity that your hip flesh hadn’t been sliced to ribbons. 

You could readily imagine what he’d look like once the mutation was complete. Imagined him sniffing at his moulted skin, then quickly losing interest. Because he was already past any courtship rituals. Already well-acquainted with this mate. Who could be sedated if she wasn’t “in the mood.”

You frowned at the scientist who stood condescendingly on the other side of the glass. As your head cleared, you started to formulate revenge fantasies. If only you could interrogate him for a few minutes! 

A.N.: This is really just the rambling intro to the fic that I will be posting for @intotheomegaverse’s and @stuckygeekevents’ Eggpreg Week 2026 event. But since this part of the story is much more info-dumpy than I prefer (especially for the very smut-driven fic it goes with), I thought I’d post it now and call it a prologue to the actual work. Enjoy my worldbuilding obsession! (And go check out the event if you haven’t already!)

Prologue.

The Island of Marvèlle was abuzz with activity as everyone prepared for the festival of that year’s spring equinox. As per tradition, the island’s four districts—Avènge, Hydrässe, Shelde, and Brooklyne—had banded together in the groveswood to celebrate the beginning of the season, a fertile time for both the land and its people, who held the distinction of being the last remaining, non-mixed Siren population in the world. 

Marvèlle was a small but proud Isle. Heavily mythicized by humans but quite regular in function and modest in resources, its size was often compared to that of Malta or Rhode Island, its land split into four distinct but harmonious districts.

Sheldebourg was the oldest and largest of the bourgs, with rival district Hydrässebourg being nearly as old. There was Avèngebourg, the younger offshoot of Shelde that had by then surpassed it in population if not in size, and still yet the village of Brooklyne. In addition to The Isle Four, that year’s festival marked the first wherein the hamlet known colloquially as Quen would participate in its own right. Though not yet officially broken off from Brooklyne, it seemed to be well on its way to being recognized as an official district, with much of the sitting Council hinting at a ‘yea’ vote in favor of granting status, should the matter ever come before them.

For millennia, island life had lent itself well to Marvèlle’s isolationism. Even well into the industrialized age of planes, trains, and automobiles, its inhabitants hadn’t mixed much with the rest of the modern world. Not until the War years came. Ever since the return of its drafted men from that horrid conflict, the Council Elders had consistently held that there should be no further mixing with the non-Siren population. ‘As little contact as possible,’ they insisted. There was no airport on Marvèllen soil, and The Isle Four all contributed a number of volunteers from their ranks, that they might maintain a rudimentary coast guard to prevent curious humans from boating in and coming ashore.

It was important, the Council maintained, that they preserve their heritage and their species as much as they could. Sirens of other island nations had failed to do so over the past century, intermixing with mainlanders, and one by one, as sure as the tide coming in, every such population had slowly declined, losing itself to the dominant human seed. Most of them lived almost indistinguishably from humans now, the Elders said, having given up the old Gods for one new one, living in stone houses with wires and pipes, their bodies transformed to mammals. Purportedly, some of them couldn’t even sing anymore! And oh, what a shame that was. To be a Siren without song? What a horrid, dreadful existence!

Such alarming changes warranted action, and the Council would often ask the people what they thought. Whenever polled on the issue, save for a troublesome portion of the Hydrässe, Marvèlle’s inhabitants were overwhelmingly of the same mind: As the last true, pureblooded Sirens left in the world, they had a duty to preserve their lineage. 

And that was why, each and every year at just the right time, they held the great Spring Festival and mating run. It was to perpetuate the species, to keep their culture alive, to celebrate the end of winter, to unify The Isle Four, and to cement their ties to the land. (But mostly to perpetuate the species.)

Because you see, unlike humans, sirenfolk rarely went into season outside of that very particular time of year. Oh sure, an alpha in good health could produce a new clutch every few months. But a spawning alpha did no good when an omega’s womb wasn’t ripened to receive. It was often remarked amongst the people, how fortunate it was that they lived as long as they did, or else they might’ve died out long ago. Nine or more decades of fertile years out of a roughly two hundred-twenty year lifespan did help to make up somewhat for having such a narrow breeding window.

There was one day. One, peak day (admittedly within a span of two or three additional possible days) where conception could occur in their kind. The needed conditions for a clutching alpha and ripened omega could only be met within that fragile sliver of time where the lengthening days matched the shortening nights, when the soil shivered loose and the earth began to sprout new life once again. That time was the Spring Equinox.

Because of this, it was rare indeed to find a native islander—man or woman, omega or alpha—whose hatchday didn’t fall somewhere within the early January timeframe. Almost exclusively, sirenfolk bred in the Spring, laid in the summer, and welcomed their hatchlings in the winter—a holdover from their ancestors’ days in more southern climates, it was commonly imagined, but ultimately a mystery lost to time, along with their supposed origins as murderous fish people (or bird people, depending on which myth one was reading—And really, Homer had done their kind an unspeakable disservice with that one. Drowning sailors for sport. Who ever heard of such utter nonsense?)

No, the Sirens of Marvèlle weren’t half-fish, or half-bird, or any other ridiculous permutation of shapeshifter that the humans liked to imagine them as. And they certainly weren’t murderous or conniving. They were merely a people: shrinking, vulnerable, and desperate to retain the remnants of their heritage.

In their fight against the creep of the modern age and the diminishment of their species, the Spring Festival and its associated mating run had gradually become the biggest event of the year. It was one of the only occasions where all of the Isle Four (well, five now, unofficially) got together in revelry and merriment, celebrated the season of renewal and growth … and chased each other through the groveswood to pair up and breed. 

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He was too old to be nervous and it was hypocritical of him anyway; he’d spent the last 17 years doing everything he could to make himself indispensable enough to evade this fate, all the while telling the trembling rookies who took his place on the breeding bench that they should feel proud to have been chosen and grateful for their ability to give this gift to their team. All the things a captain should say, and all of them lies. 

And now here he was: strapped down and offered up to a russian rookie who’d still been in diapers when Sid had been drafted. They’d flown him over special for Sid they said, in tones that meant he should feel honored, and reassured Sid that even if the kid couldn’t speak a word of english, he’d scored very high on the compatibility scale—as though that mattered, as though Sid would even have the ability to close his legs if the alpha’s scent made him gag.