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As Chris picks up the blindfold, Peter takes the chance to enjoy what’s in front of him for one more moment. Stiles is sat on one side of him, Chris on the other, both of them naked and beautiful and looking down at him, the focus of their attention. He loves being a good boy for them. He loves what it gets him.

Chris leans down and Peter dutifully lifts his head, letting him slip the blindfold into place. Chris takes his time, like he does with everything, making the band sit flat at the back of his head, no twists or bumps to distract him. He settles the padded section into place at the front so that no light can sneak through, leaving him in utter blackness. It calms something in his mind.

The noise cancelling headphones are next, placed carefully over his ears, immediately dulling everything before the music takes it over. It’s an instrumental playlist that Chris only uses for occasions like this, dreamy and flowing. With his other senses compromised, it’s almost like it’s touching him.

Then he is being touched, two sets of hands caressing him at once. He knows that there’s supposed to be an element of mystery to it, the uncertainty of not knowing whose fingers are where or who will touch him next. Peter is confident that they’re different enough that he’ll be able to tell. He enjoys the game though, tracking their movements in his mind’s eye.

Chris’ hands are rough from the workshop, the pads of his fingers weathered and dry. They move slow and sure over Peter’s chest, thick and solid and heavy. Stiles’ hands are lighter, softer, sweatier. They move with authority but excitement as well, as though he can’t quite believe someone is letting him do this. Peter trusts him so completely and he knows that trust calms Stiles a little more every time, fuelling his confidence. His fingers, long and elegant, slide down Peter’s thighs, ignoring him when he parts them in clear invitation.

They touch him, their hands overlapping, and Peter can feel them moving, leaning across him, changing positions like they’re trying to confuse him, but they’re easy to follow. Their mouths, as well, are so wonderfully different. Chris’ beard is at the stage where it’s soft rather than prickly, a sensation that Peter can’t get enough of as he kisses and nips at him. Stiles is clean shaven and his skin feels soft and smooth, leaving open mouthed kisses in its wake.

Peter loves the way that one complements the other, moving in waves over his body, rough and smooth, hard and soft, warm and hot. One always follows the other until Peter feels like he can barely discern them anymore, it’s all just sensation. His whole body is alive with them and for them, feeling them even where he can’t feel them anymore, not even sure which touch was the last because it just keeps going.

He moans, the sound seeming to be caught in his own head without being able to hear it come out of his mouth, his body writhing towards them, seeking, appreciating, even though he can’t really tell where they are anymore. He feels like he’s suspended simultaneously in every moment since they first touched him, no longer able to differentiate between now and before, let alone which fingertips trace his jaw and which dig into his hips as they try to rise from the bed.

He lets go, knowing the joy that comes from surrender. He doesn’t want to feel grounded in certainty and he doesn’t want to figure out a puzzle just to feel clever. He wants to feel good. They make him feel good. The combination of them together makes him feel so good. He doesn’t want to separate them into their components. He wants the whole. He wants to simply be theirs.