The pure ferality of Malcolm, the god of the Menagerie, moaning out Rowan’s name in front of a room full of men he had reduced to base physical characteristics rips Rowan’s own orgasm from him. He spills inside Malcolm hard, come mixing with the release of nine other men.

“Fuck yeah,” someone calls out. “Put ’im in his place.”

“Such a good fuckin’ slut.”

“Gonna jerk off to that for weeks.”

Echoes of the same sentiment come from all around them, along with groans and grunts as more men finish. In his periphery, Rowan can see their come splattering onto the bed, but he couldn’t care less about it when Malcolm slumps against him, back heaving against Rowan’s chest, slick with sweat.

He rocks his hips gently against Malcolm and strokes him through the aftershocks of his orgasm, conscious of not hurting him in case he’s oversensitive. And Christ, he must be after having been fucked almost nonstop for hours.

The crowd starts to clear as the men leave one by one to clean themselves off and re-dress, chatting excitedly, until it’s only Rowan and Malcolm left on the bed.

“Did so good,” Rowan whispers low in his ear. “So perfect. God, you’re incredible.”

It might be a little much, but he means it. And shit, Malcolm never discussed aftercare, but he must need something, so Rowan talks to him in a low voice about how good he was and how Rowan can’t believe he’s real and pets over his chest and arms and sides until Malcolm stops shaking and his breathing slows. Only then does he pull out, a gush of come following and dripping down the backs of Malcolm’s thighs.

This is definitely the end of the night, but Rowan wishes he could keep going. Keep being inside Malcolm and making him come on his tongue and fingers and cock over and over until he’s worn him out this much all on his own.

He hopes he’ll get to try. Hopes he wasn’t imagining their connection. Their chemistry.

Because there’s something there, right? You can fake a lot of stuff during sex, even if you’re a guy with a dick, but you can’t fake everything. Not blown pupils or dripping sweat or full-body shudders or any of the dozens of miniscule facial expressions Malcolm made while Rowan was touching him.

But he doesn’t get to dwell on it any longer, Malcolm slumping onto his knees, still partially leaning back against Rowan’s hips and thighs. Rowan places a steadying hand on his upper back and shuffles around on his knees to look at him. His eyes are closed, nostrils flaring slightly as he breathes. Rowan watches his chest rise and fall, counts his breaths, notes his fingertips flexing where they’re pressed flat onto the soiled bed.

“You okay?” he asks gently.