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Peter woke in that sudden, heavy way that said he had definitely slept through his alarm.
Crap, his mind supplied, the sentiment still muffled with sleep.
“Morning, baby boy,” he heard from behind him. Big arms squeezed him tight, and he fumbled up to squeeze back, fingers tracing the scars.
“ ‘m late?” he mumbled.
An amused huff, the whisper of a smile. “Look outside.”
With great effort, he pried open his eyes. In the foreground was a steaming cup of coffee (bless). And just past that…
“Snow?”
It drifted across the fire escape, piling up in crisp, impossible lines on the railing. The building across the alley was lost to his sight by a flurry of fat, wet flakes pirouetting their way to the ground.
“Is…?”
“Canceled,” said Wade. Bless his boyfriend for reading his pre-caffeinated mind.
Peter sat up against the wall, pulling the mug of coffee to his chest as he blinked muzzily at the snow. “... No teaching?”
“No snot-nosed undergrads for you,” Wade said, voice fond. “They're all out getting drunk on schnapps and sledding on the golf course and building big, throbbing snow dicks in the quad.”
Letting his eyes slide closed, Peter ran through his extensive and well-groomed to do list. “Mm, I can catch up on--”
“No.” Peter's eyes jerked open to find Wade straddling him, arms caging him against the wall. “Snow day. When's the last time you had a snow day? And I don't mean a day that it snowed. I mean a snow day.”
Peter blinked. He knew exactly what Wade meant.
It was that magical feeling of youth. That excitement, waiting by the radio for the name of your school to get read on the cancellation list. Those rare, precious days when there was nothing to do but drink hot cocoa and go sledding. When his biggest concern was getting snow shoved down his back, or the inconvenience of bundling and unbundling in a tiny apartment foyer.
Snow day.
“Probably not since high school,” he said, slowly.
Wade came in for a kiss, glacier slow, but demanding for all its languor. He pulled back just a tad. “Snow. Day.”
Peter laughed breathlessly against his lips. “Okay, okay. Snow day.”
Wade made pancakes before he woke Peter, because of course he did, and now he tried to feed them to Peter in bed.
“This is really hard,” Peter said, trying to stay patient as Wade jabbed him in the mouth with the fork.
“You just gotta relax and let it happen,” Wade snapped.
Peter leaned back against the wall, relaxed, let it happen. The next bite made its target, but fell out of his lax mouth.
“Too relaxed, too relaxed!”
“Ugh, let me try...” Peter whined.
Wade relinquished the fork with suspicion.
“Ow!” Wade yelped.
Peter huffed. “This is harder than it looks.”
They ended up feeding each other scraps of pancake by hand, syrup everywhere. After a particularly messy bite Wade lunged for Peter’s cock, hand tacky with syrup, and Peter rolled away laughing.
“No being mean! It’s snow day! It’s against the rules!”
“No being mean on snow day,” Wade repeated. And then he was very, very nice, instead.
… except for the part where he got maple syrup in Peter's hair.
In the shower, Peter dropped to his knees under the water and said a very nice, ‘thank you for breakfast,’ that doubled as, ‘I'm sorry for that one time I used maple syrup as lube just to be an asshole.’
Peter giggled, and gasped, and shivers flurried down his spine.
Wade was taking such good care of him. Maneuvering him like a beloved puppet, shifting him here and there, crooking one knee towards his ear, pointing the other out towards the wall. Peter didn’t even have to move, he just got to lie back and relax and take.
The narrow dildo shifted, and something stirred in Peter’s guts, and then he had the strangest feeling of in.
Wade beamed. “New record, baby! 49.3 centimeters!”
(Is anyone really surprised they labeled their longest depth training dildo with scientific measurements?)
Peter’s head flopped to the side and he shook with giggles. “Does that mean I’m winning?”
“PBP, topping the leaderboard, baby! I got my work cut out for me.”
Peter sighed and relaxed, letting the sensation wash over him.
“You wanna stop, baby boy?” Wade's voice was soft, unexpectedly close to his ear.
“No?” Peter mumbled. “Why?”
“You're crying, baby.”
Oh. Peter thought. So he was. Wetness leaked down his temples and his view was blurry. He blinked and his eyes overflowed, clumping his lashes.
“Don't wanna stop,” Peter said, fumbling a hand towards Wade.
“Okay,” Wade said, catching his hand, kissing the meat of his thumb, his palm. Sliding his mouth up Peter's fingers, kissing the pad of each one. His brow furrowed.
“It's okay,” Peter said, “I'm okay,” but his eyes were still leaking. “Don’t know why I’m crying, I’m happy. I’m really, really good.” And he smiled, and he meant it, and Wade took him at his word.
He ran his hands all over Peter, petting him, telling how well he was doing, so damn pretty with tears in his eyes. Peter preened, but he couldn’t quite stop crying, and he found he didn’t quite want to, either.
“Okay,” he finally said. “I think I'm ready to stop now.”
Wade stroked and soothed and praised and he pulled the dildo out so slowly, and so, so gently, Peter letting out a hitched hiccup with every hard-earned centimeter. Wade’s face was reverent, his cheeks flushed, eyes dark. His cock was hard against the back of Peter's thigh, but neither of them felt particularly inclined to do anything about it.
Finally it was out (with a flourish, and with a sound Peter could happily go his entire life without hearing again, as it flew over Wade's shoulder and bounced against the floor). Wade cuddled him up tight.
Peter wept, then, quiet but unrelenting, the small, private tears of a child who knows nobody is watching.
Wade kissed his hair, his cheeks, his eyelids. “Shh, sweet boy, it's okay, you're okay, you're safe.”
“I know,” sniffed Peter. “I think that's why I'm crying.”
They had a little nap and then Peter sprung forth, pouncing on Wade.
“Can I put my dick in you?”
Wade unfolded onto his back, flopping his arms and legs into a big, slutty X. “My holes are at your disposal, baby boy. Which one ya want? Nostril?”
Peter huffed out a laugh. “People... people don't really do that... right?”
“Naw. Well... there's probably someone. We could look it up.”
“Not today,” Peter decided. “It's snow day.”
Wade tipped his head thoughtfully. “We could still get out the nose speculum, though.”
“The what now?” Peter's face went red, and Wade cackled in delight, tipping over the side of the bed to dig around in his not-so-little box of secrets — the strange collection of awful and hilarious things he picked up here and there to save for a rainy day (or in this case, a snowy one).
“C'mon up,” he said, patting his chest, and Peter enthusiastically did. “Think you can hit the back of my throat through my nose?”
(Turned out Peter couldn't, but he could still shove a jizz-coated finger up there, and then Wade could grab his wrist and use every Cosmo Sex Tip(tee em) he had in his arsenal to get that finger squeaky clean with his tongue, and Peter could squeal, “Not on snow day, not on snow day, not on — oh.”)
Afterward, Peter sat up with a gasp. “I forgot all about putting my dick in you!” He frowned down at Spidey, Jr, who was currently having a snow day nap of his own.
Wade's lack-of-eyebrows crawled up his scarred forehead in a way that, on any day other than snow day, would have made Peter deeply, deeply suspicious.
“What if we put something bigger in me?”
Wade took the horse cock dildo with a whole lot more grace than Peter had.
Peter pet long strokes along his back, shaking his head ruefully. “You bought this thing for you, didn't you?”
“I guess I bought this thing for me,” Wade giggled, the bottle of poppers half up his nose and almost certainly doing irreparable (and also immediately repaired) damage to his brain.
Peter lubed his hands up, slimy and obscene, stroking Wade off slow and sure in time with the lazy thrusts of the machine. He didn't speed up, didn't let Wade take over the tempo, but didn't make him beg, either. He just marched him step by steady step to the edge, and right on over, and then he kept on going.
Wade’s voice when he came was high, like it took him by surprise, and Peter stroked him through it, milking it, making it last until Wade was whimpering, until Peter could tell he was just about to start begging.
Peter stopped. One hand cradling Wade’s cock, the other heavy and grounding on Wade’s lower back, he had to stretch a sticky toe out to twist the dial, ramping the machine down to a stop as gently and smoothly as he could given the circumstances.
“I think you’re done,” he said.
“You know best,” Wade slurred.
Peter smiled, sliding a sloppy hand around Wade’s cock just one more time, just to see him shudder. “Damn right I do.”
*(kinkmom says: don't put poppers directly up your nose unless you're Wade, you will literally die 🙃)
They made hot cider, fresh on the stove, with mulling spices that Wade just pulled out of thin air.
Peter hooked his chin over Wade’s shoulder, arms wrapped tight around him as they hovered by the stove. “Remember when all you could cook was pancakes and take-out?”
“Remember that time you almost burned the apartment down trying to make toast?” Wade shot back. Peter sputtered and Wade grinned. “Ah, the hazy memories of last month.”
“Shut up,” Peter groaned.
“You get your cooking from your aunt,” Wade said fondly.
“I’m telling,” muttered Peter.
“No tattling on snow day.”
They drank too much cider.
That was clearly the only explanation for how Peter found himself in the bathroom, bladder straining, dick in his hand, trying to think about waterfalls and rainstorms.
Would turning on the tap a little kill the mood?
“C’mon, baby.” Wade lounged on his back in the tub, lazily tugging at his cock. “Paint me like one of your French girls.”
Peter choked a little, not sure why he was the one embarrassed in all this.
But he closed his eyes, and he tried to relax, and then…
Oh.
Wade's face was ecstatic as the first stream hit, and Peter couldn’t help but laugh as he put every dumb boy trick he had to good use.
It was… fun? Fun and silly, and Wade seemed to like it a lot and Peter loved doing the things that made Wade feel good.
And… he couldn't help but imagine those moments when Wade was his, when he'd broken Wade down to the lowest of the low, and suddenly he had this shiny new tool to make that just a tiny bit worse.
A happy shiver ran up Peter's spine as he shook off the last few drops.
“You were really into that,” he said.
“I told you, it’s nice,” Wade said, wiggling around in it like the happy little piggy he was.
Peter leaned back against the counter, watching Wade, chewing on his lip. “I almost wanna try it.”
Wade shrugged, hauling to his feet and starting the water. “We don’t have to try it today.”
“But…” Peter started. “We could?”
“I mean, we could,” Wade said breezily. “But it’s snow day. I’m not gonna push your boundaries on snow day.”
“But-what-if-I-wanted-to?” Peter choked out.
“Nope!” Wade chirped. “Watersports are gross. Way too hardcore for snow day.”
Peter felt his lip start to tremble. “Please, Daddy?”
He slapped his hands over his mouth with a gasp.
Wade shut off the shower.
He turned towards Peter, and Peter’s eyes widened, and he pressed harder against the counter.
Wade’s eyes crinkled. “Well if you want it, good boy, you gotta come get it.”
Breathing fast, Peter stripped off his clothes, stepped haltingly into the bathtub, body close to Wade’s. Wade’s big hands soothed down his arms, encouraging him down to his knees on the hard porcelain. “Wait — ” said Peter.
Wade crouched down, hands cupping Peter’s face, kissing his forehead. “Settle,” he rumbled.
Peter whined, nodding. He closed his eyes, scrunching up his face, unable to stop from bracing for the first drop.
He waited.
He squinched open an eye.
“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” Wade chastised his dick. He caught Peter peeking. “Uh, you, uh. Look really good down there. Makes the peeing thing a little hard. Which then makes peeing difficult.”
Peter couldn’t help but burst out in nervous giggles, and Wade laughed, too, hand wrapping in a gentle pet around Peter’s head, and then Peter flinched as hot drops spattered on his chest and then he —
— settled. His eyes slid shut, as pungent liquid slid down his front, burning against his goose-pimpled skin, marking him up, making him smell like his Daddy.
“Oh,” he said.
“Yeah,” murmured Wade. “How do you feel right now, good boy?”
“Good,” whispered Peter. “Yours.”
The stream was slowing down now, and then Wade’s soft cock was right there and he couldn’t help but nudge his cheek against it, content and owned. He sat there for a long time, Wade stroking his hair, until finally…
“Daddy?” he questioned.
“Yeah, baby?”
“Kinda itchy,” he said.
“Oh!” said Wade. “Right.” He slurred his words, but his hands were steady as he pulled Peter to his feet, starting the shower and gently placing his boy under the spray.
Peter happily swayed. “That was more relaxing than I expected.”
Wade grinned, soaping down his lax limbs. “Oh, it can be thrilling, don't you worry.”
Peter shivered as a happy, anxious thrum went up his spine.
“Not on snow day, though,” he said.
“No,” Wade murmured. “Not on snow day.”
They were quiet for a while longer, Peter taking the washcloth in clumsy fingers and gently running it over Wade.
Wade hummed. “So… was that a Little ‘Daddy,’ or a grown up ‘Daddy’?”
Peter ducked his head, blushing. “Grown up.”
“That’s good,” Wade said, thoughtfully. “I'm not sure how I'd feel about peeing on a little kid on snow day.”
Peter laughed, then stopped short. “Wait. Does that mean… that on not-snow day…”
“Oh, yeah,” Wade said. “I’m gonna piss right inside your tiny, terrified asshole.”
“Wade,” squeaked Peter, throwing the washcloth at him and burying his burning face against scarred skin.
Around dusk the snow let up, leaving a tranquil wonderland in its wake.
"I know we're not supposed to work today, but can we go out on patrol?”
"Whatever you want, baby boy.”
There was no crime, which Peter had suspected, and he also suspected it was the only reason Wade had said yes to going out.
The city was silent, so muffled it almost made Peter's ears hurt, so he filled it with the rush of wind, with thwips, with whoops of joy as he flipped and dived. They settled on the rooftop of a darkened office building, and Wade gratuitously put his feet all over the designer outdoor furniture while Peter sprung between buildings, kicking up snow as he went and making a menace of himself.
When Peter finally came back to earth, Wade wrapped his own scarf around his neck and produced a thermos of hot cocoa from some pouch or another (Peter had really learned not to ask, at this point). It was thick, with just enough dark chocolate to give it an edge, and the bite of peppermint schnapps tingled their lips.
Peter was with Wade all day, and this stuff was definitely stovetop, so how the — ?
(Nope! Peter had learned not to ask.)
With a mischievous look, Peter pulled Wade up and into an alcove, pressing him against the wall and kissing every hint of dark chocolate and mint right out of his mouth.
“Just like old times,” he grinned against Wade's lips.
“Baby boy,” murmured Wade. “You are but a tiny spider, with a tiny, uninsulated spider body. I would love to take you in a manly fashion, but you'll catch your death.”
Peter kissed him silent. “Good thing you can't catch your death.” His numb fingers fumbled with Wade's excessive buckles and zippers. “Or if you do... You'll live.”
He shoved his hand down Wade's pants. Wade's head hid the wall, thunk.
“Fuck fuck fuckity, cold, no!” he yelled, squirming. Peter pressed him against the wall, hard, nipped at his ear.
“Be good,” he whispered, and Wade melted in a chattering gasp.
“I'm always good,” Wade whimpered.
“Yeah,” said Peter. “Yeah. You are.”
(Did snow make a better or worse lube than maple syrup or Rocket Pops? Results inconclusive. More data was definitely needed.)
They ended the day in the bathtub, Peter leaning back against Wade as an excessively glittery Frozen 2 bath bomb raged on around them. Wade’s hand wrapped gently around Peter’s cock, lazy, no goal except skin-on-skin and closeness.
Peter sighed, arching lazily up into Wade’s clever hand.
“Do you think it'll snow again tomorrow?”
end.