The Menagerie bonus scene

Mal fucked up.

Twice now, actually. The first time being when he slipped up during a scene and kissed Rowan.

Still, less than a week later, he’s kicking himself over it.

He’d been so out of it. All the bullshit with Amy and her piece of shit boyfriend and getting reprimanded at work for a mistake that wasn’t even his fault finally caught up to him.

And he’d just… wanted it. Wanted a shred of fucking comfort for once in his life. And the way Rowan had been treating him all night—edging him for what felt like hours and filling him up so good and praising him and talking to him like he was wanted and worth something, for fuck’s sake—well. How could he possibly have stopped himself?

The worst part is, he barely even registered it when it was happening. The only thing he’d felt beyond the tingling of his nerves from a much needed orgasm was a subtle warmth across his lower lip.

Then he was being pulled away, gently, of course, but pulled away nonetheless. And Rowan was babbling and rambling and more desperate than Mal had ever heard him. The words floated through Mal’s ears, and he heard them, but he didn’t comprehend them right away. It was like every few words got lost in the haze until the last ones finally sunk in and Mal let out some pathetic little noise that his brain couldn’t contain.

Mal… wanted to… not now… state of mind… do it again… I’ll kiss you back. I swear I’ll kiss you back. Promise.

And fuck, what was Mal even supposed to do about that? With a promise like that? Simply file it away in his mental rolodex like he’s always filed away shit he doesn’t want to deal with?

Rowan was so good about it after, too. Didn’t let Mal bury it six feet under like they could have. Mal apologized, and Rowan apologized, and they both apologized, and it was fine.

He could still feel the press of Rowan’s body against his own when he hugged him goodbye later that night for hours after the fact.

So yeah. Mal fucked up then.

And he fucked up again earlier tonight.

He didn’t even ask the guy’s name. Didn’t need to. Only needed to know that he wasn’t a six-foot-something freckled ginger with kind eyes.

It was fine. A hard, doggy style fuck with some dirty talk that didn’t do shit for Mal. The guy at least cared enough to give him the reach around, but his hand was too clammy and his grip too tight and he didn’t do that little flick of his thumb around the head like Rowan does and—

Mal had come harder than he should have from the guy’s lackluster handjob and weak stroke game, and he hates himself for it.

He hadn’t wanted to think about Rowan at all tonight. That was the goddamn point of going out and fucking someone new, and Mal did the polar fucking opposite and got off to the thought of him instead.

Now, back at home and freshly showered of the guy’s come and cologne, Mal stews.

He needs sex to be impersonal. Needs to be able to let go of the problems of his past, present, and future and sink into a headspace that lets him simply be. And he can’t do that if he can’t get some guy out of his head, or if he can’t stop envisioning more.

What it might be like kissing Rowan for real, for example, when he’s fully in control.

Mal hasn’t kissed anyone in years, a firm boundary he put in place after he’d stopped scening with Camilla and started scening with men like he’d always wanted. But making out with them felt too personal, somehow. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy it. Like Rowan had said, quite the opposite, if it’s done right.

But somewhere along the line, Mal stopped allowing it, and he doesn’t even remember when, exactly, just that some day in between Doms he’d had his last kiss and never really thought about having another one in the future.

Until Rowan. Until that ginger asshole weaseled his way into his life with first his big dick and then his clever tongue and finally his boy-next-door smile.

It would be so much easier if Rowan was a shit Dom and didn’t pick up on Mal’s silent cues so easily and quickly.

But Mal’s never been one to argue with logic and facts, and the fact of the matter is that Rowan’s already proving to be the best Dom Mal’s ever had despite his lack of experience.

And that alone is almost enough to make him wish he didn’t fuck someone else tonight.

——

Mal knows he should have texted Rowan back to let him know he was fine.

He was fine, right?

He’d gotten the aftershocks of kiss out of his system the only way he knew how, and it was fine.

The sex was fine, and the orgasm was fine, and he was fucking fine.

Except if he was fine, he wouldn’t have snapped at Rowan over text when he did finally text him back. Wouldn’t have taken his anger at himself out on his sex partner who was, by all accounts, being a good Dom and checking in on him.

It’s why he calms down the very next day and texts Rowan back first, testing the waters.

Mercifully, Rowan takes the bait, and after another round of apologies, they’re back to swapping dirty stories, and it’s business as usual.

Mal needs it to be business as usual.

——

On Saturday morning, Mal feels numb as he finally tackles the chore he’s been putting off, and treks the half mile from his apartment to the nearest CVS, kicking stray Dunkin’ Donuts cups along the way like some new-fangled version of kick the can. The humidity in the air is just this side of stifling, like there’s going to be a downpour any second despite the mostly clear skies.

When he reaches his destination, the overhead lights are too bright and there’s a persistent crackle over the intercom and it smells vaguely of wet dog and Mal needs to make this fucking quick. He checks the signs above the aisles and finds what he’s looking for: Contraceptives.

In truth, he hasn’t used protection in probably a concerningly long time. But he’s on PrEP and gets tested every month like the Menagerie requires and for the past near-decade he’s only been fucking other members of the club who follow the same rules.

So this shit’s not exactly second-nature to him anymore, and there are way too many options.

He picks up a store brand box that declares the rubbers are “ribbed for her pleasure” and then another that has a “warming sensation” and then a third that’s supposed to feel like you’re wearing nothing at all, and he immediately shoves all of them back on the shelf, the boxes around them jostling out of place.

It’s been a long ass time since Mal has had any semblance of shame, but he feels guilt rise up in his throat like bile as he looks at the rows upon rows of lube and condoms, and it pisses him off.

He and Rowan aren’t exclusive. They aren’t anything beyond Dom and sub and for all intents and purposes they’re still practically strangers to one another despite Rowan’s endless prying questions. So it shouldn’t matter that Mal went to the club the very next night after the accidental kiss and fucked someone else.

But the annoyingly calm voice of his therapist from way back in the day flits through his mind, and Mal knows he’s good at bullshitting, but he could never bullshit her. Still, after all the years that have passed since his last session with her, he can hear her in his head clear as day.

And frankly, he doesn’t like what she has to say.

It does matter, Mal. Let it matter.

Mal takes a deep breath, eyes tracking to the black-and-gold box that stands out among the rest. He checks the size and heads to the self check-out, grumbling to himself about the store not stocking cigarettes anymore.

Mal could use a fucking cigarette right about now.

——

Mal can tell that Rowan’s excited about their session tonight, and it makes him feel like an asshole.

The shibari class had gone well, Rowan picking up the knots in no time and mastering them after only a few tries like the fucking grown Boy Scout he is.

Mal can’t remember a time when a simple chest rig over his clothes got him so worked up. Maybe it was Rowan’s competence that did it for him, or how focused he’d been with each and every tie, or the feeling of his big hands skirting against his bare arms as he pulled the ropes taut.

Maybe it’s just Rowan, full stop.

But when they reach the Gold Room afterward, the air feels different. Less familiar, somehow, though they’ve been scening in the room for weeks now. It’s hard to match Rowan’s eagerness like he usually would with the added weight of the condoms dragging him down.

The zipper of his bag and the clinking of the D-rings is loud in Mal’s ears when he sets out his cuffs. The gold lettering on the box glints in the dim lights, and for a moment, he considers not taking the condoms out at all.

But he can feel Rowan’s eyes on him, and Mal knows that he can’t do that to him. He’d be a shit scene partner and a shit person in general to break their agreement.

So he takes out the box and tosses it on the bed. Steels his expression so he doesn’t slip up again and let something show on his face that would dig himself deeper into this mess.

Between them, the box and the silence linger.

Part of Mal hopes Rowan gets it. Part of him hopes he doesn’t.

“Oh…”

Ah, fuck.

Mal chances a look at Rowan and sees his eyes fixated on the box. There’s a deep furrow between his eyebrows and a prominent downturn to his lips. Mal had suspected, briefly when he’d allowed himself to think about it in the few hours since he’d bought them, that Rowan might be hurt by his actions, but actually seeing it on his face is almost more than he can handle.

But Mal has to stay firm. The same way he’d have to be if it was Rowan who fucked someone else raw during their arrangement.

And when Rowan finally looks up and meets Mal’s eyes, the pain he sees reflected back at him in shades of moss and jade and emerald is nearly enough to make Mal wish he had one fewer notch in his belt.

Mal’s body count remains intact, and he narrows his eyes at Rowan in case he tries to ask the question.

The time ticks by, growing longer by the second.

Rowan’s uncharacteristic silence and evident hurt once again almost prompt Mal to say something, to explain himself, to justify why he needed someone that wasn’t Rowan to make him come, but he doesn’t.

It’s his own business, and he and Rowan aren’t anything to one another beyond the pinstriped paint of this room and the neon lights of Sheila’s diner.

He stuffs down everything he’s feeling, out of sight, out of mind. He stays carefully neutral and tells himself that his mind’s recreation of his therapist was wrong, after all, and that it doesn’t matter that Mal fucked another guy.

With his tumultuous emotions and numerous excuses all locked down, it’s too easy to blink away the sight of the kicked puppy before him and pretend that he isn’t the one wearing the boots.

Then something shifts.

Rowan’s face dissolves into nothing and his voice is flat when he speaks a single, truncated word: “’Kay.”

And that’s what breaks Mal.

Maybe some sick part of him had hoped for anger like he’d gotten over text last week. Because anger means passion—means caring.

Means those words and promises that Rowan had professed last Saturday were true, after all.

But of course they weren’t. Mal’s not a lovesick teenager or touch-starved virgin, for fuck’s sake, and he doesn’t need or want anything from Rowan except someone to push him around and get him off.

That’s the plan for tonight, and Mal’s determined to stick to it.