Glacier air pours into the room and lays frost on the upholstery. First a pale shoulder, then several blue elbows follow after in due haste. Whoever is clambering through the gap in space is not suited to its dimensions, as hard to determine as they might be. It is similar to watching a bear try to use a cat-door.

A masked face is far from the last body-part through, and it rolls on a long, goosey neck and fixes frozen-glass eyes on the fresh-forged knife Tintin is packing. The eyes dip, briefly, to see what else he's got. Then the knife again.

"English?" the partial view of limbs says. "No knife, thank you?" It manages to get a leg through the portal, which is kind of whining now. "Shh."

That... is... a person. They are talking. No knife. Okay. The knife folds itself back into Tintin's omni-tool. As a bonus, the blue light emanating from his eyes flickers out.

Tintin is abruptly conscious of the cum leaking down his leg. He blushes slightly, but he is not going to be embarrassed in front of this ?person? who appeared abruptly in his hotel room. It is for them to have any embarrassment that may be had.

"Um," he says, beholding the person's efforts to climb through the portal. "...do you need some kind of help."

Ari has, by this point, sat up languidly, tossing aside his bedclothes. He beholds their visitor with some fascination.

Oh, the boy can turn pink! Oakley is incapable of such a feat.

"No help!" the figure insists, treating the portal a bit like a stubborn boot at this point. "I do this all the time, no worries!"

The figure emerges fully from the portal, which sighs somewhat sarcastically as it vanishes. The cold abates somewhat. This apparently-human person is tall, head nearly to the ceiling, and wrapped in some kind of whitish, rubbery tarp. There's a moment during all of this when they are no longer wearing a mask over their eyes, which is also the moment it becomes clear they are not wearing anything under their tarp. Very little being worn overall, even by what are apparently the local standards.

"Ah! Lovely. I will be going, now. Apologies for..." The intruder gestures with a spidery-wide hand at the cum, wheels around, and confidently grabs the door handle. Which is locked.

"Ertu að djóka?" they huff, by all appearances speaking to the handle, before wheeling dizzyingly around once more. "Doors," they intone apologetically to Tintin, "Are very mad with me right now." Their knuckles, on closer inspection, appear to be grazed to hell and bleeding darkly.

The person fully notices Ari, and forgets their door trouble: "We– all of the three of us are blonde! Magnificent!"

Upon noticing their injury, Tintin immediately looks them over to make sure they aren't hurt elsewhere. "Are you alright?" he asks, as well. "Your hand..."

"We do appear to all be blonde!" Ari says, unconcerned. "What exactly are you wearing?"

Scrapes, here and there, make themselves apparent. A thin, shallow, long scratch on one shin, stippled tiny punctures above one eyebrow, a pretty deep puncture wound juuuuuust visible where the tarp hangs over the giant's upper thigh.

"Oh, my, er." They ask the air a question in a Nordic language. "My "tarp", thank you, yes. I was... in a fight... and lost my clothes... so I took it with me." They adjust the drape of the tarp fashionably, which reveals some of their crotch just for a moment. They are so tall that the juncture of their legs is about level with Tintin's armpits. "Sorry about the blood, I barely feel it." There's a draft as the wounds turn slightly blue, scabbing over and shrinking up. The wounds smoke slightly? "If someone could get the door for me I would be best pleased..?"

Tintin blinks. "Well, alright then."

He goes to open the door.

The knob refuses entirely to turn.

He kneels down and peers at it. "...the lock is completely melted."

"It looks like you may be stuck with us until Maintenance gets here."

"Oh you petty–" They appear to be cursing the door again. This puts Tintin, on his knees by said door, approximately underneath some of his new guest's anatomy. "This is just self-defeating behavior. You sacrifice one door to stop an Excrucian from achieving her goals and aargh this is why I don't go home. And I know you can't hear me anymore, you stupid door." They huff out a considerable breath, which ruffles Tintin's hair coolly. "I should calm down! Hello! I am Oakley, a traveler. Thank you for the unearned hospitality." They turn around, revealing an ass the color of the moon and approximately its height above Tintin's head. They don't appear to notice any kind of a draft that would clue them in to this development. "There are worse things than blond lovers to be stuck with, I think! Please feel free to ask any awkward questions about me."

Tintin looks up at an inopportune moment and gets an eyeful! He blushes and elects to scuttle out from underneath Oakley.

"I, um. What is... an Excrucian? Should I be volunteering to save your world, I have some experience with -"

"No! You're on vacation! Better question: do you, Oakley, have any relevant genders, your presentation is both great and mystifying to me. 'Fuck off' is an answer to that question, to be clear."

"Good question! Ari, I mean. Tintin's questions are silly, so fuck off to Tintin." He gets a heavy-handed pat on the head, from all the way over. "I was a member of a culture that has a gender that, at one time, described me. Since my... world... is not here, and since my people took me out of their culture, I am not a gender. Neuter pronouns are generally considered appropriate." They look down and wiggle their toes. "I do usually present with cool shoes, though. And a nicer robe."

(In all the chatter it's easy to miss that Oakley seems to have intuited both of their names.)

"I have to say, this is not the first time I have walked in on a couple like this, and they are usually quicker to rerobe." Oakley tosses their icy tumbleweed of hair. "Maybe you are just being polite? Don't want to make me feel bad about no clothes?" Their glass eyes examine the nudities in question like they may leave soon.

"I! Well - I got up to, to defend myself, and then we, um, started talking, and -"

Ari grabs Tintin and pulls him back into bed. "There, there. He is actually very distractible, but that doesn't mean he's not a tremendous exhibitionist. Sort of like myself!"

It may be noticed that Ari still has two cocks. Which are standing to attention.

Oakley is apparently only surprised, out of any of those things, by the arousal. Pleasantly so. "You just move him around like a little chess piece."

They consider for a moment before, in a motion that seems familiar to them, drawing their industrial-material cloak off and hanging it on a coathook. Naked, they appear larger; something about the lack of objects for scale has a statuizing effect. Their skin is evenly pale, no signs of tanning or scarring, interrupted only by indigo veins and recent wounds. They have small breasts, unconscionably long legs, and just the one erection, halfway.

They open their mouth, but are interrupted by a thump. A small, dead white rabbit has fallen out of the cloak on its hook. "Don't mind her." Oakley takes a half-step that still takes them clear across the room; they have about a foot of height on Ari. Their teeth are bleach-white and they smell like ozone and recent violence. "I don't ever just watch, I hope that is agreeable."

Ari is momentarily concerned by the rabbit, but he's willing to take Oakley's word that it's not a problem. He stands to his full height, and still only comes up to Oakley's shoulder. This is not a problem for him. He will just grab the back of Oakley's neck and pull them down into a kiss. He tastes like almond paste and sugar.

His other hand grabs Oakley's prick. Then, thoughtfully, he reaches behind it, wondering if he'll find a pleasant surprise like Tintin's.

...Tintin, having been left to his own devices, will bury his face in Ari's ass. That seems productive.

Oakley has something damp (and, well, not warm, exactly, but tingly?) to greet Ari's hand. The territory is less demarcated than Tintin's, more integrated. Oakley lets out a basso groan like the earth settling.

Something is whispering between their lips as the two of them kiss, like a delicate, whipping wind. It adds something to the typical tongue-wrestling. Oakley's lips are as cold as the rest of them, but it's the kind of cold that makes you strip in the snow and sweat out ice.

They helpfully reach under Ari's shoulder and grab Tintin's head, making sure he's on target by kind of just mashing his face further into Ari's ass. Little chess piece. His left hand is brachiating from Ari dick to Ari dick, meanwhile.

Tintin is, as ever, happy to be manhandled.

Ari is pleased with everything that's happening here.

He breaks off the kiss for a moment. "I should ask - can I fuck you, if so where -"

(Well, Tintin is being handled, at least.)

"Ass, if you please. I hardly have room for one of these things up front." Their accent is less pronounced, suddenly, their vocabulary choices less halting. Needs must. "Tintin would probably fit if he's more, erm, proportional." Hard to tell since a birdseye view of the little Frenchman reveals only an apple-cheeked ass.

"Bigger than he has any need to be," Ari says easily, "but more to a normal scale. Seven inches, maybe eight? I'm sure he'd be happy to take your cock, if you'd rather."

(Tintin does not have enough information about the inside of Oakley's head to object to being referred to as French, though he would if he did. As it is, he continues happily licking Ari's hole.)

"Eight?" Oakley sputters. "I am so happy that my dick is-" in your giant calloused hand "-competing in a different category than you boys or else I might develop a complex." Oakley fingers themself where Ari isn't already, although they have to fight Ari's kissing to get access to the necessary saliva. "I can't do lube magic," they warn, on the presumption that it's a normal thing to say around here. "I can do fitting things magic but that's cheating. I will fuck him."

(Tintin's French should stop thinking that France's borders reach across all corners of space, then. :P)

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."