𝐏𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐞𝐫 𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐭 𝐁𝐨𝐨𝐤

Cookies And Crumbles

Parings → Peter Parker x Reader

Warnings → injury care, stitching wounds, blood mention, mild panic, secret identity reveal, hurt/comfort, domestic softness, light angst, fluff

Summary → Reader discovers Peter is Spider-Man after he comes home injured, leading to stitches, scolding, and emotional, soft reassurance.

          ｡･:*:･ﾟ★｡･:*:･ﾟ☆  ｡･:*:･ﾟ★

You’d been hyping yourself up the whole subway ride. He’s gonna love the cookies, you kept thinking, clutching the warm container like it was some kind of treasure chest. Peter had been drowning in that “Stark Internship” lately, barely sleeping, barely eating, and absolutely not taking care of himself. So yeah — homemade cookies felt like the kind of soft, sweet surprise he deserved.

You’d spent the whole day baking them — warm, soft, gooey-in-the-middle chocolate chip, the kind Peter always devoured like he hadn’t eaten in years.

You let yourself into the apartment quietly. May was at work, the place was calm, and you already had Peter’s spare key swinging in your hand like you were the cool girlfriend breaking in for wholesome reasons.

You were already picturing Peter’s face lighting up — that wide, boyish grin he got whenever you did something sweet for him. Except… something cut off that cute imaginary scene.

A noise from the hallway.

A shuffle.

A quiet, pained hiss.

Then the unmistakable clatter of something metal hitting the floor.

You froze, your hand still on his bedroom doorknob. Is he home ? He wasn’t supposed to be home.

You pushed the door open. “Peter?”

You didn’t even make it two steps inside. Everything inside you stopped.

The cookie container slipped from your fingers and hit the floor with a loud crack, the lid popping off. Thankfully, the cookies didn’t scatter — small blessing in a growing disaster.

Peter snapped toward you instantly, eyes blown wide. “It’s not what it looks like!”

Except… it was exactly what it looked like.

He stood in front of you wearing the Spider-Man suit, the red-and-blue suit you’d only ever seen on the news. The mask was tossed on the bed. His hair was messy, damp with sweat. A big, ugly gash split across his side, the suit torn open, bruises already blooming along his cheekbones.

Your breath caught.
“Oh my god.”

Peter threw his hands up like you’d walked in with a gun instead of baked goods.
“Wait, wait—just—don’t freak out—”

“Please tell me you’re not Spider-Man.”

“I’m not Spider-Man.”

“Peter.”

He caved immediately.
“Okay! I am Spider-Man!”

“OH. MY. GOD.”

He winced and stepped toward you, hands out, looking like a kicked puppy who also happened to be illegally hot in skintight spandex. “Baby, please don’t be mad.”

“Mad? Peter, you’re bleeding!” You pointed at the gash, voice jumping an octave. “You’re literally—Peter, what the hell happened?”

He looked down at himself like the injury was a mildly surprising inconvenience. “Oh. Yeah. That’s… that’s kinda bad.”