He wasn't misremembering how massive it felt inside him. That's good.

He remembered correctly how full it made him feel.

How, even as the head widened - and widened - and flared out, forcing a gasp from his lungs - it felt like he was fulfilling some essential purpose.

He feels it again. It feels like praying never felt, like how breathing would feel if air was God.

"Ungh - fuck!"

"Alright?" Ari asks, pausing.

"Yes - please, keep - harder -"

"Your wish is my command."

Ari thrusts into him.

Tintin makes a keening noise as cum dribbles out of his cock again. He can't think. He can only feel.

God, he's tight - Ari sucks on the side of his neck, marking his territory, if he doesn't want it after there's healing.

Oh he really intends to fuck Tintin until he can't cum anymore, that's good to confirm. No brakes on the Ari train.

Tintin whines at the continued stimulation, Ari's cock filling his hypersensitive pussy, Ari's body pressing down on his prick, Ari everywhere at once. He thinks he might be cumming again? He's not usually this multiorgasmic.

Ari keeps fucking him like a piston, but - even as experienced as he is, there's only so much stimulation he can take. He shudders and hilts himself in Tintin and his cock pulses as it fills him with cum.

He collapses. "God. You're incredible."

"mmrgbfrgl," Tintin mumbles into Ari's right pectoral.

"Sorry -" Ari pushes up and re-collapses onto his side instead of on top of Tintin.

"Thank you," Tintin says, un-muffled but still rather faint. "You appear to have somehow broken my spine through my cervix."

"And are you complaining?"

"I am absolutely not complaining."

But he will reach over to the console and get an aftercare potion.

And so will Ari.

"Shall we go another round, or do you tire of my ample charms?"

Tintin - considers the question.

"I'm not, um, tired of your charms? But... I do kind of want to switch it up, and maybe find you later? If that's okay?"

"I'm completely fine with that! And I'm happy that you feel comfortable expressing your preferences to me!"

Ari retrieves a cleansing wand from the console and gives each of them a tap. "There. Do we need to find your clothes, or do you want new ones?"

"I think I'll just get some new ones," Tintin decides. "And... thank you. For understanding."

A few minutes later, he strides out into the hotel, wearing an outfit not significantly dissimilar to the one from yesterday but with somewhat tighter pants, and his shirt entirely unbuttoned. He wanders the intuitively numbered halls until he reaches his own room.

He sits in one of the numerous armchairs and... well. He broods.

He feels... unsatisfied. Which is weird, because he has, over the past twenty-four-hours, been fucked, exquisitely and considerately and to within an inch of his life, and... wasn't that the point? Wasn't he here to lose his virginity? He might as well head home, then! Task accomplished, thank you OTC for the extra two weeks but it turns out he doesn't need them.

It's not that he was missing a connection. He does feel connected to Ari - he's a lovely person. He likes Ari. (He likes practically everyone.) It's not that he didn't like it. He loved it. It was intense and wonderful and completely unlike anything he's ever experienced. It's not -

He feels... like he was craving something. Like his body and soul were hungry for something specific. And instead he got something else. Something that was good! But - it only made him want what he was missing more.

If only he knew what he was missing.

...fuck it. There's a bar on this level. He's going to go get drunk.

He heads over to the bar. It's themed, apparently - archaic, wood and stone construction, flagons and tankards along one wall. There's a haze of hypoallergenic smoke.

"Have we considered," he mutters, "that this is kind of silly."

"Yes," says a voice from significantly below his line of sight.

The gentleman who spoke doesn't look like a child or someone with a genetic disorder - just someone who happens to be scaled down to three and a half feet tall. (He doesn't look completely unlike a child, to be fair. His face is smooth, and his features are a notch more neotenous than human average. But overall, clearly a member of some other species.)

He's wearing mostly leather (of the "brigandine" variety rather than the "fetish" variety), with a woolen green accessory around his neck. His pants, also leather, strain to conceal an absolutely disproportionate bulge.

"Yes," he continues, "this is absolutely fucking silly."

Tintin looks down, then looks further down, then blushes and looks a little further up.

"...also from a half-tamed world?" he hazards. "But I'm guessing yours is closer to, erm, this aesthetic, natively."

"Yes, we're a medieval backwater. And I'm guessing your world doesn't have half-foots."

"We don't. You would then be a... half-foot?"

"Indeed I am. You can tell when people don't know about us, see, by that look of what's this fucking child doing here, wait, I'm a cosmopolitan patron of the multiverse, that probably isn't a child, I just looked at his dick and he DEFINITELY isn't a child. It's a very eloquent look."

"I do apologize for my wandering eyes."