ᥫ᭡. Under the Mask - P.P
Black!F!Reader x College Peter Parker
Synopsis- After the world forgets who Spider-Man really is, you accidentally discover the truth and suddenly, you can't get him out of your head. When you realize the boy behind the mask walks the same college halls as you, curiosity turns into something deeper. Because the hero everyone sees is only half the story, and the guy underneath the mask might be even harder to forget. 18+MDNI
A/N: you guys don't know how excited I am for my man to be back on my screen. It's been so long. I had this story in the drafts for almost a year I think now and I thought this would be the perfect time to post it. Peter and the reader are Seniors in colleg so they're 21-22 years of age. This is Part 3 of this series so if you haven't go read part 1 and 2! Originally this was suppose to be one part but the chapter was too long so I had to split it into 2! So don't forget to go read part 2!
Warning: mild language, alcohol mention, grief mention, light romantic tension, brief mention of danger.
Masterlist : Part 1 Part 2 Part 3
────────── 🕷️ ──────────
Tuesday comes way too slow and way too fast at the same time.
By the time evening rolls around, your room is cleaner than it’s ever been in its entire life.
Not because you care.
Obviously.
But if Peter Parker, secretly Spider-Man, is going to be in your room, then maybe your random pile of unfolded laundry didn’t need to be in his direct line of sight.
That’s all.
Totally normal.
You’ve changed into something comfortable, your knotless braids—which you got done the Sunday prior—falling over your shoulders while the scarf tied around your edges keeps the front sleek and neat. The apartment smells faintly like vanilla and laundry detergent, and somewhere in the distance you can hear Marie laughing at something loud enough to qualify as a public disturbance.
Tiff is in her room on FaceTime, and every few minutes you hear bits of Jamaican patois and cackling through the wall.
You’re sitting on the edge of your bed pretending to scroll through your phone when really you’ve reread Peter’s text three times.
Peter :)
A smiley face.
A smiley face.
Men really do the bare minimum and suddenly it’s cinema.
You texted him your address earlier when he asked, but other than that there’s been no messages between you two.
You hate this.
Just then your phone buzzes.
Peter: Here :)
Your stomach immediately flips.
You stand up too fast, nearly tripping over your own rug in the process.
“Jesus,” you mutter, catching yourself before fixing your face like you haven’t just been acting insane for the last ten minutes.
Then you head to the front door.
When you open it, Peter is standing there holding his backpack strap with one hand and a notebook tucked under the other arm.
And wow.
He looks good.
Stupidly good.
He’s in a dark hoodie and sweats, hair slightly messy, glasses sitting low enough on his nose to make your life harder than necessary.
There’s something about how soft he looks outside the suit that catches you off guard all over again.
Because this is him.
This is the boy under the mask.
And for one split second, he just looks at you too.
Then his eyes flick down and back up again like he’s trying not to stare.
Because you look good too.
Really, really good.
And Peter’s trying very hard not to let that short-circuit his entire nervous system on your doorstep.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey.”
He lifts the notebook slightly. “I brought… geometry.”
You grin. “Hot.”
A small, breathy laugh slips out of him.
You step aside. “Come in.”
He walks in carefully, like he’s not sure how much space he’s allowed to take up, and his eyes flick around the apartment in quick little glances.
It’s warm. Lived in. Cozy.
There’s a throw blanket over the couch, candles on the TV stand, shoes by the door, a half-empty bottle of juice on the coffee table.
It feels homey in a way his place hasn’t in a long time.
The thought hits him unexpectedly hard.
You shut the door behind him. “My roommates are here, but they’re mostly in their rooms.”
He nods. “Okay.”
You motion toward the hallway. “My room’s this way.”
He follows you down the short hall, and when you push your bedroom door open, he pauses for half a second in the doorway.
Your room is very you.
Soft lighting. A warm-toned lamp glowing in the corner. A fluffy throw blanket folded neatly at the foot of the bed. Candles, books, and a little jewelry tray scattered across your dresser. A collage wall above your desk. Lotions and glosses lined up with suspicious precision.
It’s girly without trying too hard.
Cozy.
Pretty.
You.
Peter’s mouth parts slightly before he can stop it.
“What?” you ask, turning back.
He shakes his head quickly. “Nothing. It’s just…”
You raise a brow.
“…your room is really nice.”
The compliment catches you a little off guard.
Your smile softens. “Thank you, I tried.”
He gives a small shrug, suddenly shy again. “It feels… cozy.”
Something about the way he says it makes your chest warm.
You point to the carpet. “We’re studying on the floor though. Outside clothes don’t go on my bed.”
Peter nods immediately. “That’s fine by me.”
He sets his stuff down while you grab your notebook and textbook.
You both settle onto the carpet with your backs near the side of your bed, notebooks spread out between you, calculator tossed beside your thigh.
And for a little while, it really is just studying.
Peter is… annoyingly good at this.
Not in a cocky way.
Just in that deeply offensive smart-person way where he explains something once and suddenly it makes sense.
He doesn’t make you feel dumb.
Doesn’t rush.
Doesn’t get frustrated when you ask him to repeat something.
He just patiently walks you through angle relationships and proofs and whatever geometric witchcraft Mr. Banner is trying to put you through.
“Okay,” Peter says, tapping your notebook with the eraser end of his pencil. “So if these two are supplementary…”
“They equal one-eighty,” you say.
“Good. And if this angle is sixty-eight…”
“Then the other one is…” You squint at the page. “One-twelve?”
He looks at you for a beat.
Then smiles.
“Yeah.”
The praise hits harder than it should.
You grin despite yourself. “Okayyy.”
He laughs softly. “You got it.”
And that’s the problem.
Because the more relaxed he gets while teaching, the harder it is to ignore the fact that he’s very, very attractive.
Every once in a while, he’ll push his glasses up with one finger. His curls fall into his eyes, and he absently brushes them back. Or he leans over your notebook to point something out, his body heat radiating so close it makes your brain completely leave your body.
You’re trying to focus.
You really are.
But every few minutes you catch yourself stealing little glances at him.
The line of his jaw.
The shape of his hands.
The soft concentration on his face when he’s reading over your notes.
And underneath all of that, there’s still this giant question sitting in your chest.
You want to ask him things.
About that night.
About him.
About who he is when he’s not in the suit.
But he still feels a little guarded. Not cold, not rude, just… careful. Like there are a thousand locked doors in him and he’s only cracked one open by accident.
So you start light.
You twirl your pencil between your fingers, pretending to look down at your notes. “So…”
Peter glances up. “Mm?”
“Were you born here?”
His brows lift slightly, like he wasn’t expecting that. “Uh. Yeah. Queens.”
You smile. “Okay, city boy.”
He gives you a tiny grin. “I guess.”
“How old are you?”
He blinks once. “Twenty-two.”
“Wait, really?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re my age?”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-two.”
“Then seems like it.”
Even though he’s being sarcastic, there’s a small grin on his lips that gives him away, and you lightly bump his shoulder.
The atmosphere shifts a little after that. Easier. Softer.
So you test the waters a little more.
“What about your family?” you ask, keeping your tone casual.
And immediately, you feel him tense.
Not a lot.
Just enough.
You almost regret asking.
But after a second, he answers.
“My parents died when I was little.”
Your heart sinks.
“Oh,” you say quietly. “I’m sorry.”
He shrugs in that way people do when they’ve had to say something painful enough times that it starts sounding rehearsed. “It’s okay.”
No, it’s not, you think immediately.
But you don’t say that.
Instead, softer, “What happened?”
“Plane crash.”
Your chest tightens.
Damn.
You sit with that for a second, then ask gently, “So did any of your other family take you in?”
He nods. “Yeah. My Aunt May took me in.”
The name lands oddly.
Familiar.
You blink. “May?”
“Yeah.”
You stare at him.
Then your eyes widen.
“Wait.”
Peter looks up.
“May Parker?”
That gets his full attention.
“…Yeah,” he says slowly. “Why?”
You sit up straighter. “Oh my God.”
He blinks. “What?”
“I knew her.”
Now it’s his turn to stare.
“What?”
“I mean—not like knew knew her,” you say quickly. “But I knew of her. In high school, I used to volunteer at this outreach center downtown. They did food drives and winter coat donations and hygiene kits and stuff for homeless folks and low-income families.”
Peter’s expression changes immediately.
Something softer. Sharper. More attentive.
You continue, “She used to be there all the time. Like all the time. Helping with sign-ins, serving food, organizing donations, talking to everybody like she’d known them forever.”
A smile tugs at your mouth without you meaning it to.
“She was so sweet,” you say. “Like… one of those people that just had light in them, you know? She remembered people’s names. She’d ask how school was going. She always smelled like peppermint and hand lotion.”
Peter goes completely still.
And for a second, he can’t say anything at all.
Because hearing someone else talk about May like that—
Like they saw what he saw.
Like they understood what she was.
It hits somewhere too deep.
You glance at him, your voice softening. “I was really sad when I heard she passed.”
His throat moves.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Me too.”
The room goes quiet for a second.
Not awkward.
Just… full.
Then you tilt your head. “That’s crazy though. I didn’t know she had a nephew.”
And the second the words leave your mouth, something flickers across Peter’s face.
Small.
Sharp.
Gone almost immediately.
Because of course you didn’t know.
Nobody does.
Nobody remembers that May had a nephew because in the version of the world everyone else lives in now, Peter Parker has been quietly erased from all the places he used to belong.
And hearing it from you still stings more than he expects.
You notice the strange little shift in him, but before you can overthink it, you ask lightly, almost too casually:
“Did she know?”
He looks at you.
You hold his gaze.
“That you were Spider-Man.”
For a second, he says nothing.
Long enough that you start thinking maybe you crossed a line.
Long enough that you think he might just shut down completely.
Then finally, very quietly:
“Yeah.”
Something in your chest twists.
Because the way he says it tells you more than the word itself.
You nod slowly. “Okay.”
You don’t push, scared you might scare him off if you do.
After a minute, you nudge your notebook toward him. “Okay. Explain number seven to me before I forget everything you just taught me.”
He sighs in relief, grateful for the shift.
“Yes, ma’am.”
And the studying continues.
Only now it’s easier.
The conversation comes in little pieces between equations and diagrams.
You ask if he has siblings. He says no.
You ask if he has a girlfriend.
He says no.
To your surprise, he asks questions about yourself too, and you gladly answer.
You point your pencil at him. “Do you have friends at least, or are you just mysterious and weird full-time?”
He actually laughs at that.
“I have… friends,” he says slowly, which causes you to snort.
“Yeah, because that sounded real convincing.”
Little by little, you can feel it happening.
He loosens a little.
Not completely.
But he does.
And you like it.
There’s something so unexpectedly soft about him.
Sweet in a way that doesn’t feel performative.
Awkward without trying to be charming.
Guarded, but kind.
Like every careful little piece of him has still somehow managed not to harden.
Which, honestly?
Might be the most dangerous thing about him.
A knock hits your half-open door.
Then Marie appears without waiting for permission, pushing inside with all the grace of a woman who’s never respected boundaries in her life.
“Hey, Y/N, do you wanna—”
She stops mid-sentence when she sees the scene before her.
Her eyes flick from you.
To Peter.
To the open notebooks on the floor.
Then back to you.
One perfectly arched brow rises.
Uh oh.
You know that look.
You immediately point at the geometry book like a defense attorney presenting evidence. “Don’t start.”
Marie folds her arms, lips twitching. “I didn’t say nothin’.”
“You were about to.”
Peter, poor thing, looks like he wants the carpet to swallow him whole.
You sigh. “Marie, this is Peter Parker. He’s tutoring me. Peter, this is Marie Diaz.”
Marie’s eyes flick over him in a quick once-over, subtle enough that he might not catch it, but you do.
Approval flashes through them.
Then she smiles, all charm and trouble.
“Peter Parker,” she says, and for some reason the way she says it makes you want to laugh. “Nice to meet you.”
Peter looks like he has no idea what to do with the fact that Marie just said his full government name like she’s announcing him at a scholarship banquet.
He gives her a small, polite nod. “Nice to meet you too.”
Marie glances between the two of you, then back at you with entirely too much knowing in her face. “So. Since y’all are apparently having a very scholarly little evening in here, I was gonna ask if you wanted to order pizza.”
Your eyes light up immediately. “Yes.”
“See, great minds think alike.” She says, then turns to Peter. “What about you, Peter Parker?”
Peter shifts a little where he’s sitting, one hand resting on his notebook. “Oh, no, I’m good. Thank you though.”
Marie narrows her eyes. “You sure?”
“Yeah,” he says quickly. “I don’t wanna intrude.”
And right on cue, like his body personally hates him, his stomach growls.
Loud.
Not subtle.
Peter freezes.
Silence.
Then the color rushes into his face so fast it’s honestly kind of impressive.
You bite your lip.
Marie stares at him for one beat.
Then you crack first, a little laugh slipping out before you can stop it.
Peter drops his head into one hand. “Oh my God.”
That makes you laugh harder.
And then Marie starts cackling too, one hand over her chest. “Baby, your stomach just spoke for you.”
Peter lets out a mortified little laugh into his palm, shoulders hunching as he shakes his head. “Okay, wow.”
Marie grins wickedly. “So that was a yes, then.”
He peeks up, still red. “I mean… if that’s okay.”
“It’s pizza, not a kidney,” Marie says. “You’re fine.”
She pulls her phone out and looks at both of you. “Large pepperoni with bacon?”
You nod immediately. “Perfect.”
Peter agrees. “Yeah. That sounds really good.”
Marie points at him before turning to walk away. “See? Honesty sets you free, Peter Parker.”
He laughs again, quieter this time, and something about the sound makes your chest go warm and stupid.
The second she’s gone, you turn back toward Peter, who still looks like he wants to evaporate.
You grin. “Your stomach really sold you out.”
He groans softly and rubs his forehead. “I know. That was actually evil.”
“I’m crying,” you say, even though you’re not. “Like, perfect timing much?”
He gives you a helpless look. “Apparently not.”
You smile, softer now. “It’s okay. I would’ve judged you more if you turned down pizza for real.”
“That’s fair,” he says, a little smile pulling at his mouth. “That would’ve been suspicious behavior.”
“Exactly.”
The awkwardness melts again as you both settle back over the notebook.
Peter taps the page with his pencil. “Okay. So before my dignity was publicly executed, we were on number nine.”
You snort. “Rest in peace.”
He points at the diagram. “Focus.”
You lean in beside him, close enough that your shoulders brush lightly. “I am focused.”
“You’re literally not.”
“I’m emotionally focused.”
He shakes his head, smiling under his breath. “That’s not a real thing.”
“It indeed is.”
He glances at you for half a second too long, amusement sitting warm in his brown eyes, and then looks back down.
“So,” he says, clearing his throat a little, “if angle A and angle B are congruent…”
You work through a few more problems after that, and somewhere between proofs and your dramatic complaints about geometry being a hate crime, the conversation keeps slipping into easier places.
He tells you he likes science more than math, which feels deeply offensive considering he’s good at both.
At one point, when you get an answer right on your own without help, you throw your hands up. “Oh, I ate that.”
Peter smiles at you, genuinely pleased. “You did. Good job.”
And there it is again.
That stupid warm feeling.
You try to ignore it.
“Okay,” you say, writing the answer down. “So what do you do when you’re not terrifying the streets of New York in spandex?”
He nearly chokes on his own breath. “That is not what I do.”
You grin. “That is exactly what you do.”
“I do other things.”
“Like?”
He shrugs. “School. Work. Lab stuff.”
“Lab stuff,” you repeat. “That sounded sexy and nerdy.”
He gives you a look over the rim of his glasses. “I don’t think those two words usually go together.”
“They do for you.”
The second the words leave your mouth, you instantly wish you could take them back.
For one tiny second, neither of you says anything.
Then you point aggressively at the notebook. “Anyway. Is this one alternate interior or corresponding?”
Peter blinks once, then looks down. “Alternate interior.”
“Thank you.”
“Mm-hm.”
His ears are pink again.
You do not mention it because you are a kind and gracious woman.
Mostly because if you do, he might combust.
About fifteen minutes later, there’s a knock at the front door and Marie yelling from somewhere in the apartment, “Pizza’s here!”
You and Peter both look up.
You set your pencil down. “Saved by processed meat.”
He laughs and pushes himself to his feet, then reaches down automatically to help you up.
You take his hand.
Warm.
Big.
Your stomach flips so suddenly it’s almost rude.
Peter seems to feel it too, because his fingers tighten for the briefest second before he lets go.
Neither of you says anything about it.
You just head for the kitchen together like two people pretending your nervous systems are not doing cartwheels.
The kitchen smells amazing by the time you get there, all hot cheese and grease and garlic. Marie is already setting the box on the counter, and Tiff is there too now, leaning against the fridge with a drink in hand.
She looks up as you walk in with Peter and immediately clocks the vibe in about half a second.
Her eyes flick to you.
Then to him.
Then back to you.
Oh, brother.
You give her the tiniest warning look possible.
She bites the inside of her cheek to stop from smiling.
“Peter, right?” she says instead, easy and casual.
Peter nods. “Yeah.”
You reach for a plate. “Peter, this is my other best friend, Tiff.”
“Nice to meet you,” he says.
“Likewise,” Tiff says, and unlike Marie, she actually behaves like she was raised with some sense.
She opens the pizza box with the reverence of a woman unveiling treasure. “So, Peter Parker, how long you been a genius?”
You close your eyes. “Marie.”
“What?” she says innocently, passing out paper plates. “I’m being hospitable.”
“You’re being nosy.”
“I can be two things.”
Peter, for reasons beyond your understanding, looks amused instead of alarmed.
“I’m not a genius.”
Marie stares at him. “Baby, you voluntarily tutor geometry. That’s sick.”
Tiff mutters, “Marie, leave that man alone.”
“I’m not bothering him,” Marie says. “He likes me.”
Peter, mid-reach for a slice, glances at Marie and says with a small smile, “I do, actually.”
Marie puts a hand on her chest. “See? Manners. Home training. I knew it.”
You groan and grab two slices from the box.
Tiff rolls her eyes and pushes off the fridge. “Please don’t gas her up. She’s already unbearable.”
Marie ignores that. “So where you from?”
“Queens,” Peter says.
“Okayyy,” Marie says. “That makes sense.”
Peter looks amused. “Does it?”
“Yeah. You’ve got a Queens face.”
He blinks. “I have no idea what that means.”
You giggle mid-bite into your pizza.
Tiff points at Marie. “See, this is exactly why I said stop.”
Marie snaps her fingers. “Wait, what’s your major?”
Peter swallows and answers a little more confidently this time. “Biophysics.”
Marie goes dead still. “That is not a real word.”
Peter laughs. “It is.”
“No, because that sounds like a degree you make up on a government form.”
“It’s real,” he says, smiling now.
Tiff shakes her head. “Marie, let him eat before you interview him for office.”
“I’m just trying to get to know our guest.”
“Our guest would like to eat his damn pizza,” Tiff says.
Peter actually laughs at that, shoulders loosening again, and the sound makes you glance at him without meaning to.
He catches you.
You both look away.
Immediately.
Yeah.
Normal.
Very normal.
Somehow, after that, the conversation evens out.
You all eat standing around the kitchen island, talking about classes and professors and the campus library and the fact that the laundry room in your building is probably sent from hell.
Peter gets comfortable by the minute.
He smiles more.
Answers quicker.
Even teases back a little when Marie dramatically tells him she’d fail geometry on principle.
“I believe in you,” he says.
She narrows her eyes. “Don’t lie to me in my own kitchen.”
You laugh so hard you nearly drop your plate.
By the time the pizza’s half gone and the mood settles into something warm and easy, it feels weirdly natural having him there.
Like he fits more easily than either of you probably expected.
Eventually, he checks the time on his phone and straightens a little. “I should probably head out.”
And just like that, something in your chest drops a tiny bit.
“Oh,” you say, trying to sound normal. “Yeah. Okay.”
Marie and Tiff both suddenly become way too interested in throwing away their napkins.
Traitors.
Peter thanks you guys for the pizza and Tiff for not letting Marie interrogate him to death, which earns another laugh from both of them.
Then he looks at you.
That same quiet little look from before.
Soft. Careful. A little shy.
After he grabs his things from your room, you walk him to the front door and pull it open. Tiff and Marie stay suspiciously planted in the kitchen, pretending not to watch.
Peter adjusts his backpack strap again, and for a second you just stand there looking at each other in the warm apartment light.
“Thanks for helping me,” you say quietly.
His expression softens. “You’re welcome.”
“And for not letting me fail spectacularly.”
“You’re still doing the work,” he says. “I’m just making sure you’re going in the right direction.”
“Still.” You smile. “Thank you, Peter.”
He looks at you for a beat, and the way his name sits in the silence between you feels bigger than it should.
“Goodnight,” he says then.
“Goodnight.”
He hesitates.
Then gives you that same tiny wave again.
It’s so cute it almost makes you angry.
You smile before you can stop yourself. “Bye.”
“Bye.”
He turns and heads down the hall, and you stay in the doorway a second longer than necessary, watching until he disappears around the corner.
The moment you shut the door, Marie is already there.
“Hoooooot.”
You whip around. “Marie!”
She presses both hands to her chest, dramatic as ever. “I’m sorry, but Peter Parker is fine.”
From the kitchen, Tiff calls, “She not even lying.”
You stare at both of them in disbelief. “Y’all are so embarrassing.”
Marie follows you back into the apartment, grinning like the devil. “No, because the glasses? The shoulders? The voice? Girl!”
Tiff leans on the counter, nodding. “And he was sweet. That’s the dangerous part.”
Marie points at her. “Exactly. Fine and nice? That’s how they get you.”
You roll your eyes so hard you nearly see your past life. “He is literally just helping me study.”
Both of them stare at you.
You cross your arms. “That’s it.”
Marie bursts out laughing.
Tiff snorts. “Okay.”
“I’m serious.”
“Mm-hm,” Marie says.
You grab the last slice of pizza out of spite. “Y’all are annoying.”
“And you like him,” Marie sings.
“I do not!”
Tiff raises a brow. “Then why you smiling like that?”
Your hand flies to your face.
You are smiling.
Damn.
Marie screams. “OH MY GOD.”
“Shut up!” you yell, lunging for her.
She dodges you with a shriek and takes off down the apartment, socks sliding on the floor.
You chase her immediately.
Tiff is laughing so hard she has to grab the counter, and then somehow she gets dragged in too when Marie ducks behind her like a human shield.
“Don’t use me!” Tiff cries, laughing.
“You’re part of this now!” Marie yells back.
The next thing you know, all three of you are in the living room, fighting each other with throw pillows and laughing like idiots while somebody almost knocks over the lamp.
By the time you all finally collapse onto the couch in a breathless heap, your cheeks hurt from smiling.
Marie nudges your shoulder. “Still saying it’s just tutoring?”
“Bitch. Fuck you.” You laugh and grab a pillow to smack her in the face with it.
She yelps.
Tiff starts laughing again.
