Ari wakes up with a lithe little twink grinding on his cock, a familiar and thoroughly welcome sensation.

"Morning," he rumbles lazily, reaching down between his partner's legs to swipe a thumb across his pussy. "I see you're up for another round."

"Nn - yes, I thought so."

He thrusts his hips to try to catch Ari's thumb, extend the contact. How are his hands so fucking big. How are they the same species.

Ari can thumbfuck for a bit, sure. He's got nothing but time.

His thumb is slightly rough, and, as established, pretty massive, especially in comparison to his tiny partner. It dips between Tintin's labia, and curls in as it pushes deeper and deeper. His other fingers frame Tintin's prick, nestling in his wispy-fine pubic hair.

Tintin's muscles flutter around him. "Nh," he comments. "Feels - feels good."

"Should I fuck you," Ari muses, "or just keep on like this? I bet I can make you cum. Wouldn't that be nice?"

"Yeahhhhh," Tintin moans. "- but I bet you could make me cum with your cock too," he adds more coherently.

"Mm. Bet I could, at that."

Ari's thumb continues plundering Tintin.

"But maybe I want to make you cum and then do it again. And again, and again."

Tintin trembles. "Wh-what if - I want to get on with it?"

"You're awfully impatient. How long are you here, anyway?"

Ari's voice is casual, even as his thumb searches around for Tintin's g-spot.

"Two-ooh. Two weeks."

"You've got time for me to fuck you however I want," Ari says decisively. "And right now I want to go slow. I want to make you cum until you can't anymore."

"I can't help taking that - ngh - some sort of challenge."

"What, are you going to try not to get off? Be my guest. Think about baseball."

Ari's other hand wraps around Tintin's cock and starts stroking.

"I have ways of making you cum, Mister Saint-Martin."

Tintin tries thinking about baseball, and fails because baseball is profoundly uninteresting, especially compared to the things Ari is doing to his genitalia. He tries prime factorization, which is only marginally better. He tries thinking about dance routines - Asari striptease, which is mechanically fascinating and has never been anything else before, the things asari can do with their pseudoamphibian flexibility - and manages to halfway trick himself into thinking it's working until he has a vivid mental image of his cock vanishing into a silky azure, tentacles reaching around to infiltrate his holes, and he's spurting all over his belly and Ari's hand.

"Feeling a little less rushed?"

"You somehow accidentally caused me to have a heterosexual thought," Tintin says reproachfully.

"You're going to have to unpack that for me."

"I was trying to think of mechanically fascinating but unsexy things, and I thought of asari dance routines. Which - I'm not attracted to asari, even if, well, a lot of people are - but when I lost the tug-of-war I was thinking about fucking one."

"My god you're gay. Never once before had you looked at an asari and wanted to fuck them?"

"Breasts are terrible. Even asari pseudomammaries."

"You can have sex from behind!"

"Were you going to fuck me or argue about the objective sexiness of asari?"

"Well. If you ask nicely."

"Fuck me. Please. Fill me with your ridiculous, beautiful cock and make me cum until I can't anymore. Until I can't walk."

Ari hisses in a breath. "So you do know how to ask nicely," he murmurs.

He withdraws his thumb from Tintin's pussy and lines up the blunt head of his cock, then starts pushing in.

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."

"Ha! Like I give a damn. I wouldn't wear these pants if I cared about people looking."

He pulls up his crotch demonstratively.

"How about you, what interesting quirks has the wider multiverse failed to work out about your world?"

"Hmm. Uh, asari aren't women but don't generally care very much if you get it wrong? The blanket ban on extreme genetic engineering doesn't mean we aren't all engineered to the absolute limit of the law? The fact that we don't have magic doesn't mean we don't understand pretty well how it works once it's been explained?"

"Asari, those're the blue ones with the tentacle hair? Huh. What are they if they aren't women?"

"Not women," Tintin shrugs. "They just don't have a thing where gender goes. They're all asari."

"Learn something new every day. What say we get a drink, uh..."

"Valentin Saint-Martin," he says, sketching a little bow. "Tintin, if you please."

"Chilchuck. Chilchuck Tims. You... are adorable. And I do not say that often."

Tintin heads for the bar. "Thanks!"

When they reach the bar, Chilchuck is able to climb onto a barstool, but it's a pretty near thing. "Accessibility," he grumbles. "An underrated virtue."

"I'm guessing you wouldn't have taken kindly to being helped up."

"Would've bitten you, yeah."

"Noted."

They get drinks: Tintin something fruity that doesn't taste like booze, Chilchuck a bitter ale.

"I've never understood the draw of beer," Tintin comments. "If you want to get drunk there are easier and more straightforward ways."

"It's a cultural thing. And I like the taste."

"It tastes like rotten grain!"

"Maybe to your sensitive tallman tongue. Drink your fruitwater."

Tintin drinks his tallman fruitwater.

"So - what brings you to the Bowers?" he asks. "I did some work for the OTC, on, uh, sort of an unofficial basis."

"Same, pretty much. My world was threatened by demons that feed on desire, and I provided some important information that the OTC needed in order to keep them contained. Plus I used to run a workers' union, so I made an obvious candidate for an ambassador... apparently."

"A union! Nice. I'm just kind of a general adventurer."

"Well I did that too, but honestly, I usually prefer not to put my own ass on the line unless I really have to."

"Ah, there's the difference between us. I'm constitutionally incapable of self-preservation."

"I've known the type."

Chilchuck takes a long pull of his ale.

"But neither of us came here to talk about work. So I guess the real answer to 'what brings me to the Bowers' is 'I'm an inveterate hedonist and it seemed like the kind of place I could have a good time.'"

"And is it, so far?"

"Oh, I just got here. Literally, walked through the door an hour ago. Not much time to form an impression. The complimentary chocolates were nice, I guess."

"Ah. No time yet to sample the other pleasures on offer, then."

Chilchuck looks him over. "Are you offering?"

Tintin considers.

"Well, I might. I mean, you're handsome, and... I guess I'm still looking for something."

"Looking for what?"

"...well, if I knew I'd be getting it. But for now, I guess just... something new."

"Heh. I can give you new. And I'm just looking for a good time, and you do seem like that." He knocks back the rest of his ale. "Your room or mine? Actually, you'd have trouble standing in mine. Let's do yours."

"Sure," Tintin says. He downs the rest of his drink, and stands. "Do you need a hand?"

"Fuck off."

Chilchuck hops down to the floor, landing with a solid thump and straightening up.

"I just wanted to be sure you were safe."

"Keep talking shit and I'm not the one who's going to be unsafe."

"I feel you should know that I respond to threats by doubling down," Tintin says archly.

"I will bite you. That isn't a threat, it's a promise."

"As long as it's bedroom-appropriate."

"Ugh. You're already filling me with regrets."