Felicity's Beast World Apocalypse-Chapter 117: Thin Walls 18+

The first moan was an sharp, silvery, utterly unexpected. It knifed through the concrete floors of the apartment like a beacon, and every beastman on the top floor froze where he stood.

Sarge’s cock had gone rock solid the second the noises began, straining against his canvas fatigues with a will of its own.

Marx started to make a joke, but Sarge snatched the canteen from his hand and strode for the corridor, face like granite. First left, past the ruined living room, into the bathroom. The mirror was cracked and grimy, the sink had never run, but Sarge locked the door and stared at himself in the glass and what looked back with barely contained hunger.

He didn’t wait. The zipper was down, the briefs shoved aside, and his cock huge, thick, and ridged with the subtle shift of beastman muscle sprang out, dark and leaky. Sarge braced one hand against the wall and gripped himself with the other, his mind already flooding with images of Felicity.

He could see her, as the radiant, golden furred goddess who in his mind was straddling him like using him as a sex toy.

He growled, picturing her voice wet, eager, commanding. "Let me use your huge cock as a toy." In his mind, she was wild with it, jaw slack with pleasure, eyes rolled back and tail flagged high.

He pumped faster, every motion raw and desperate, his breath fogging the glass, the musk of his own need thickening the air. Down the hall, the mewls were building to a frenzy, and Sarge could swear he felt the vibrations through the pipes, as if the whole building was a tuning fork for Felicity’s pussy.

He came with a snarl, spurting over his fist in thick, ropy streams. For a moment he just stood there, panting, head heavy, the world glazed in aftershock.

Marx was next. He’d tried to hold out play it cool, keep the edge but as soon as the air was filled with that scent, that delirious, wet, honeyed tang, he was done. His knees nearly gave out. Marx had been a street brawler, a pickpocket, a survivor, and nothing had ever made him as weak as the whimpers coming from the other side of the wall.

Sarge had made his move for the bathroom. Marx was left in the stifling, shadowed bedroom, cock already half out of its sheath before he was even aware of the motion. He collapsed to the floor, back grinding against the cold, ruined plaster. The beast in him didn’t even pretend at refinement. He fisted his cock long, veined, absurdly thick, a freakish mutation he’d once been embarrassed to show, now twitching and drooling in his scarred hand while the rest of him stared at the spot on the wall nearest to Felicity.

He wondered, in a half dream state, if he’d ever get to put it inside her. Would she even fit? Would he split her open, make her gasp and cry, paint her insides with his cum? Or would she look up at him with those shimmer-glossy eyes, make that little mewling sound, and beg for more, like a monster?

He pictured her barely able to wrap both hands around him, mouth open in awe then fear, then delight. In the fantasy she lay on the counter, panties balled in her fist, pressing her impossibly soft body to his cock, her lips swollen and dewy, face all wrecked and sweet and pleading.

He stroked faster. "Please, I can’t take it, you’re too big," she’d whisper, but she wouldn’t stop, she’d just push her hips forward, grind herself against his length. And in his mind, she wanted it rough, wanted to be taken, wanted the bruises and the stretch and the raw, animal possession. She’d bury her face in his neck and sob with the pleasure and the pain.

He caught himself groaning, the sound low and desperate. His hips jerked, cum spurting over the waistband of his pants and pooling on the wood. He slumped, dizzy, shuddering with a sudden, black relief. He liked to think he was in control, but around her, nobody was.

When Marx finally opened his eyes, he saw that he’d sunk deep claw marks into the floorboards. The room stank of sex and want, and it only took a second for his cock to twitch back to life. He grinned, wiped his hand on the curtain, and stood up. If he ever got the chance, he’d make her scream his name. And maybe, if he was lucky, someday he’d be strong enough to deserve it.

Felicity’s voice had certainly carried to the other floors, but no one would dare confront Snow Team about the noise. Marx and Sarge crossed paths in the hallway afterward, both suddenly finding the ceiling and floor fascinating rather than meeting each other’s eyes. Still, a shared smirk passed between them at least the others weren’t here. They alone had been granted this small, accidental intimacy with her voice.

The building held sound poorly.

It had been reinforced for impact, for weather, for rot and intrusion and time, but no one had ever rebuilt a Vineyard structure with privacy in mind, and certainly not for the kind of presence Felicity carried now.

By the time Ivan stepped back into the corridor with Sarge and Marx, the atmosphere had already settled into something dense and quietly charged. The moment itself had passed. No noise lingered now. No movement. But there was a trace of it in the air, the way heat stayed trapped in stone long after the flame was gone.

Marx’s ears were still faintly red.

Marx’s eyes blazed with the feverish light of a man who’d just glimpsed paradise through sound, desperate to appear unmoved while every cell in his body vibrated with the need to kick down that door and claim what lay beyond. His fingers twitched against his thigh, betraying the war between composure and the wild, hungry joy threatening to crack his face in two.

Ivan had been there and unlike the others, he did not look unsettled.

He looked... settled.

But satisfied in the way a protector looked when something fragile had been held through a storm and had not broken.

The difference was subtle but unmistakable.

It made Sarge look away first.

It made Marx cough into his hand like he needed to clear something that was not in his throat.

Behind them, footsteps approached.

Pope, Kai, Ash, Sam, the horse brothers, Shadow and Draco

They had missed it.

Completely.

They had been out in Vineyard’s quieter corners, dealing with Light sympathizers and supply exchanges and the early negotiations that came with belief spreading through a place that had survived too long without a guiding structure.

They entered the corridor mid conversation.

Then stopped.

Because the silence was wrong.

Sam’s gaze moved across the group first, scanning the expressions that refused to meet his.

Pope’s eyes narrowed slightly.

Kai looked between Sarge and Marx, who were both doing a very poor job of looking normal.

Ash tilted his head.

"What," Sam asked.

No one answered immediately.

Because how did you explain something like that.

Sarge rubbed the back of his neck.

Marx stared very hard at the far wall as if it contained answers to structural integrity problems he suddenly cared about deeply.

Sam’s gaze flicked to Ivan.

And stopped.

Ivan did not look embarrassed.

Ivan did not look distant.

Ivan looked grounded.

Warm in a way that did not belong to the corridor.

Understanding landed.

Sam’s shoulders dropped slightly.

Pope’s mouth tightened.

Kai exhaled once through his nose.

Ash’s expression went still they had missed it.

They had missed the moment Felicity’s vulnerability had been held in a way that was both intimate and protective.

Part of them burned with the knowledge they’d been excluded from something primal and significant.

It was not jealousy exactly it was worse.

They moved anyway.

Because Vineyard did not pause for personal emotion.

Outside, the air was sharper.

Leaf Team had returned.

The faint scent of decay and old blood lingered in their wake, the residue of a recently cleared zombie wave drifting through the secondary lane like proof that survival still required violence.

Ivan saw them first, six men

All over six and a half feet tall broad without being bulky.

Scarred in ways that spoke of experience rather than recklessness, old damage.

The kind that healed under pressure instead of care, bone that had set itself without tenderness.

Muscle that had adapted to pain instead of avoiding it.

Each of them carried subtle beast influence that did not scream for attention.

Heavier skeletal structure.

Thicker necks.

Breathing that came slow and measured, the way predators conserved energy instead of displaying it.

They did not look like they needed to prove anything, their presence bent space the way Snow Team’s did.

But colder.

Less cohesive.

More solitary.

They stood like individuals who could walk away at any moment and remain intact.

Leaf Team.

Mercenaries, Long range operators, the kind of group that did not settle.

Except they had.

Vineyard was now their base.

Because it was stable.

Because it had resources.

Because it did not try to own them, and because no one here was foolish enough to challenge them.

Recognition passed.

Dimitri stepped slightly forward.

Albino snow leopard lineage showed in the clean lines of his face and the faint pallor of his hair.

Red eyes rested on Ivan with calm familiarity.

Lucan stood beside him anaconda blood marked in his stillness.

Long.

Quiet.

Potential coiled beneath ease.

Thane lingered near the back, watchful without intrusion.

Exile’s presence felt heavier, ocean-deep violence contained within controlled posture.