Tintin obligingly removes his face from Ari's rear and positions himself more availably for Oakley's convenience.

He also beholds their erection, while he's up. "Oh, it's lovely," he says, wonderingly. "Can I -" He reaches out.

It's already in his hand. It makes the palm smart a bit, not like pain but like there might have been pain a moment ago. It's a pretty novel sensation. Oakley looks briefly strained, or annoyed? but it passes as they push the end of their dick through Tintin's hand and against his lower lip.

Mlem. Taste.

It tastes like a cold day where they just put out the road salt. Oakley's dick rapidly warms from all the contact.

Oakley helps the little fellow back onto all of his fours. Bed for him. Their long fingers curl around his balls. How is the lovely Ari?

Stroking himself ambidextrously. When Tintin is back in position, he gives Oakley a thumbs-up.

Tintin keeps his mouth on Oakley throughout the repositioning. Important taste work.

It is rude for a guest to ask for lube twice. Oakley says something sweetly, quietly in Icelandic, and their fingers leave Tintin's cute (outsized) ballsack to fondle, instead, a potted plant. The plant, which was not leaning this close to the bed a moment ago, gets scratches under the chin. Good plant, beneficent plant, yes you are. After about five seconds of this they return to the medias res with a palmful of green goo, which becomes in short order a cocksworth of green goo.

"I do, actually, have lube magic. It's just a slight hassle." The plant wilts a bit.

Muttering something in French (où es tu?), Oakley lines themself up with Tintin in short order. "Dis quand." Which of these two guys gets to say when is a fun question that Oakley leaves at their feet.

"Quand."

The next five seconds of Tintin's life involve a pale giant murmuring into his shoulderblades, cold-as-snow lips rippling over the nape of his neck, as half a dozen inches of something supple and somehow minty negotiates his insides. The first bit of the murmuring that's actually directed at him: "He gives you such nice gifts, doesn't he?"

Tintin moans. "Yes - he's so good to me."