Felicity's Beast World Apocalypse-Chapter 106: Not Ready 18+

Felicity drifted out of the seam of her space still wrapped in Damien’s warmth, his coils loose but present around her as if even sleep had not convinced his body to release her.

She was unconscious to the transition.

He was not.

When they emerged back into the dim quiet of the abandoned school, Damien lifted his head slightly. The other three were already aware. Victor, Ivan, and Voss did not question it. They simply watched as he uncoiled with slow reluctance, pressing a brief kiss to Felicity’s forehead before withdrawing.

"I love you," he murmured softly, not for her to hear, but because the words needed somewhere to go.

He moved toward the doorway where the team’s space met hers and found Sarge standing there.

Waiting.

Watching.

Damien’s pupils narrowed.

A quiet hiss slipped from him, low and deliberate, before his mouth curved into something that was not quite a smile.

The scent of Felicity clung to him unmistakably. Close. Intimate. His.

Sarge straightened without meaning to. His shoulders pulled back, posture going rigid as Damien passed him without another word.

The message had already been delivered.

Behind them, Felicity stirred the loss of warmth registered first.

Her lashes fluttered as she shifted, looking up to find Voss, Ivan, and Victor standing over her.

Three shadows.

Three presences.

Three expectations.

She swallowed and whispered, "Heal."

Power moved through her quietly, sealing what needed sealing, restoring what needed restoring.

But something lingered.

His gaze sharpened.

"Little fox," he said, voice calm but edged, "he protected you."

A pause.

"But he also hurt you."

Felicity’s fingers curled weakly into the blankets.

"We cannot have him near you yet."

Her throat tightened.

Victor’s expression did not soften.

"And you," he continued, quieter now, "have been careless."

Her eyes flicked instinctively toward Voss.

"Voss..."

It came out small.

A plea.

He did not step back.

Ivan didn’t either.

Agreement moved between them without speech.

The air shifted as they lowered themselves closer, their presence closing in not with cruelty, but with certainty.

Felicity’s breath caught as they descended toward her, the space shrinking until there was nowhere left for her to retreat but into them.

She was so tired now, eyelids fluttering in the muddled heat of her own body. Her skin was clammy and pink, dotted with faint marks and sticky with sweat. She was still, for a glorious moment, the very center of everything. She could feel it the way Victor’s focus held her in place, the way Ivan’s presence flickered at the edge of her senses, the way Voss’s hands hovered, gentle but inexorable, over her arms and chest as if holding her together.

She breathed in, shallow and shaky. And then their mouths found her, three points of heat and claim. Victor’s lips seared her neck with slow, deliberate nips; Ivan came at her from behind and pressed his teeth into the curve of her shoulder. Voss, always the quietest, licked the bruised line of her collarbone, his tongue cool and soothing.

They kept her close. They all but devoured her.

Victor’s mouth traveled downward with an unhurried, sickeningly sweet patience. He paused over her belly, eyes black and unblinking, and licked an arc around her navel, hands braced on her hips. He spread her thighs and pressed his face into her, so sudden and so greedy that Felicity gasped and scrabbled for something anything to ground herself. Voss’s fingers laced with hers, pinning her arms above her head, his lips still worshipping the trembling line of her jaw.

Ivan’s hands were everywhere. Sometimes he squeezed her thighs until she whined. Sometimes he twisted her nipples between finger and thumb, rolling them until she bucked up off the makeshift bedding. He laughed when she did, low and smug, and bent to murmur into her ear.

"Little sun," he said, "we should break you open and fill you up. But you’re not ready, are you?"

She could only shake her head, shuddering, as Victor’s tongue plunged deeper, his hands forcing her open for him, holding her helpless in the wet and the heat. She was a mess of salt and tears, the pleasure too pure to be bearable. It crested and broke in her, again and again, until she was reduced to nothing but sound soft mewling, shattered moans, her own name reshaped into nonsense syllables by Voss’s teeth at her throat.

Victor pulled back, face slick with her, and a growl rolled through his entire chest. "Ours," he said. He drew himself up, aligned with her mouth, and slid in until she choked. "Only ours."

Voss’s hands still held her arms up, but now he shifted, pressed his cock to her lips next to Victor’s, waiting, patient as death. Ivan pushed her legs farther apart and knelt over her chest, his cock weeping onto her skin. He squeezed her breasts around his length, thrusting lazily.

They shared her, shameless and unhurried, passing her between their mouths and hands. Victor’s cock stretched her lips and made her cough, but he didn’t stop. He thrust until her nose was pressed into the salty base of him, until she couldn’t breathe and her vision starbursted into white. Voss kissed her everywhere Victor wasn’t, everywhere Ivan’s rough hands left untouched whispered promises and apologies as he slid his fingers into her, curling them up until she screamed.

And when the three of them finally came, it was all at once Victor in her mouth, Voss on her pussy, Ivan covering her breasts in hot, sticky lines. They kept her pinned beneath them, unable to flinch away from the mess and the heat, forced to swallow what Victor fed her and to gasp into Voss’s hand as he fingered her through the aftershocks.

She was trembling, covered in saliva and semen, her body a single raw nerve. They cleaned her with gentle hands, wiped her face and neck and thighs, tucked her into the nest of blankets as if she were something precious and breakable. Only then did they allow themselves to collapse around her, drawing her into the center of their warmth and weight.

Felicity drifted somewhere between waking and sleep, her mind a blank, her body claimed and spent. She felt safe utterly, terrifyingly safe at last.

Sarge had seen a thousand things, most of them ugly. This what the beastmen did with her, what she became in their hands should have been another grotesquery. Instead, he stood in the barely lit hall, pulse hammering, transfixed.

He knew the rules: don’t get involved, don’t get invested, don’t ever let them know you’re watching. But here he was, pressed into an a silent sentry and a voyeur, and he had no idea she loved that.

The sounds from the room were obscene, impossible to tune out: the slur of tongues, the animalistic growls, the ragged, high pitched pleas that barely sounded human. Sarge recognised every note of it need, surrender, a kind of pain that was almost indistinguishable from pleasure.

He didn’t see her, not directly, but he saw the flicker of too many shadows on the far wall limbs tangled, a pale leg thrust up, a hand like a claw gripping the wall so hard it bent. Sarge’s hand was already in his pants, thick fingers wrapped around his cock. He hadn’t meant to, not really, but after the first few seconds the choice was gone. He stroked himself slow, almost reverently, as the cries from the room next door reached a fever pitch.

He pictured her: Felicity’s tiny, trembling body, dwarfed by the men, gasping for them, needing every inch. He imagined Victor’s hands, calloused and stained, prying her open, and Voss’s mouth, cold and precise, mapping every inch of her skin. It wasn’t even about wanting her he’d never wanted anyone the way his boys did. But he wanted to see if it could be done, if even a girl like her could be broken down to her most basic form and still survive it. Maybe this was what survival looked like now: letting yourself be consumed.

The squelching, the wet slap of flesh, the guttural shout when Victor came Sarge matched his breathing to the rhythm, sweat running down his chest. His own climax snuck up on him, a hot, stinging rush that left him pressed forehead first against the wall, panting like he’d just run drills. He wiped his hand on his jacket and zipped up, disgusted by himself but also, in a weird way, satisfied.

He straightened. The animal urge was sated, at least. But he couldn’t shake the feeling he’d crossed some line, one he didn’t even have a name for yet. He wasn’t their leader, not really; he’d never claimed that. But he was supposed to protect her. What the fuck did it mean, then, to stand here like a pervert, useless, while they tore each other to pieces?

He glanced through the doorway. She was limp as a ragdoll, a puddle of sweat and cum beneath her, and yet her eyes were open, glassy but alive. Voss was still knuckles-deep in her, rolling his fingers lazily as if kneading bread. Victor stroked her hair from her face, murmuring something private and low. Ivan, always the brute, was licking the mess from her chest, his tongue working in slow laps that made her twitch even in exhaustion.

It was obscene: the way she arched into every touch, how even now her pussy gripped Voss’s hand with desperate, involuntary pulls, how the mess on her skin only made her shine brighter. And then, as Sarge watched, she turned her head and saw him. The first time, really saw him. Her mouth twitched, a ruined little smile, and her gaze locked to his. She might have been too spent to move, but she was still Felicity: bright, sharp, impossible to look away from.

She didn’t look away. Not when Voss bent to bite her hip, not when Ivan’s teeth tugged a nipple raw, not even when Victor leaned in and kissed her with a mouth still sticky from her own body.