Chapter Text
Peter Parker’s alarm blared at 6:30 AM, a harsh electronic screech that cut through the thin walls of the cramped Queens apartment. He silenced it quickly, heart already racing from the ingrained fear of waking Quentin. At eighteen, Peter was a freshman at Empire State University on a scholarship that barely covered books, let alone rent. His days blurred between lectures, part-time shifts at a greasy diner, and surviving the alpha who “took him in” six months ago.
Quentin Beck was twenty-eight, a freelance tech consultant with a sharp jawline, calculating eyes, and the kind of dominant alpha presence that turned heads in any room. To the outside world, he was charming—successful, protective, the perfect partner for a young, vulnerable omega like Peter. In private, he was a nightmare Peter couldn’t escape.
Peter slipped out of bed, his body already cataloging the aches from last night. A deep bruise throbbed on his inner thigh where Quentin had gripped too hard. His entrance felt raw and tender, a reminder of the claiming that had lasted nearly three hours. He moved silently to the bathroom, avoiding the creaky floorboard. In the mirror, his reflection stared back: messy brown curls, wide doe-like eyes that looked too innocent for the marks hidden beneath his clothes, and a lithe, almost delicate frame that betrayed his omega designation no matter how hard he tried to suppress it.
He showered quickly, using scent-neutralizing body wash that cost half a week’s tips. The hot water stung the bite mark on his shoulder—Quentin’s teeth had broken skin again. Peter dried off, dressed in his best, and only, interview outfit. He wore a slightly wrinkled button-down shirt with long sleeves, dark pants that hid the limp, and a tie he fumbled with three times ovet. He concealed the visible bruises with careful dabs of concealer stolen from a drugstore.
By 7:15, breakfast was ready—oatmeal and coffee for Quentin, nothing for himself because his stomach was too knotted with anxiety. The Stark Industries internship interview was at 10 AM. It was his secret. His one chance at something better.
Quentin emerged from the bedroom in boxers, hair tousled, alpha scent thick and possessive in the small space. Burnt copper and sharp citrus. He eyed Peter up and down, a slow smirk spreading.
“Look at you, all dressed up like a proper little omega.” Quentin crossed the room and pulled Peter against him by the waist. His hand slid down to squeeze Peter’s ass possessively. “Interview today?”
Peter nodded, keeping his eyes lowered submissively. “Yes, Alpha. Just a small tech thing. Probably nothing.”
Quentin’s grip tightened painfully. “Better be nothing. You’re too smart for your own good sometimes.” He breathed heavily. “Too beautiful. Every alpha out there would love to sink their teeth into you—literally. But you’re mine.” He leaned in, nipping at the unmarked side of Peter’s neck, hard enough to draw a whimper. “Say it, babydoll.”
Peter’s whimpered submissively. “I’m yours, Alpha. Only yours.”
The alpha rewarded him with a deep, demanding kiss, tongue invading Peter’s mouth like he owned every part of him. Then he pulled back. “Good boy. Now get out of here before I bend you over the table and make you late. But tonight…” His eyes darkened. “Tonight I’m knotting you until you forget your own name.”
Peter left the apartment with his heart pounding and a fresh wave of slick threatening despite the neutralizer. The subway ride to Manhattan was crowded and suffocating. He clutched his backpack—containing printed resumes, a cheap tablet with his projects, and a water bottle—and tried to breathe through the anxiety.
Stark Tower rose like a monument to innovation. The lobby was bustling with confident employees in sharp suits and lab coats. Peter’s omega instincts screamed at the mix of alpha scents, but he kept his head down and presented his visitor pass. Security scanned him thoroughly before directing him to the 43rd floor waiting area.
He sat among other nervous applicants, leg bouncing. When his name was called, a professional beta assistant led him to a conference room.
The technical interview started first. Three engineers grilled him on programming, mechanical engineering, and applied physics. Peter shone here—his mind was his greatest asset. He explained a custom algorithm he’d built for optimizing energy in small-scale robotics, hands gesturing animatedly as he forgot his fear for a moment. The panel nodded approvingly.
Then the door opened.
Tony Stark entered casually, coffee in hand, as if he hadn’t just stepped away from running a multi-billion-dollar empire. He was in his mid-forties but carried himself with the vitality of a man in his prime. Tall, broad-shouldered, with neatly styled dark hair streaked with silver at the temples, a neatly trimmed goatee, and those intense brown eyes that seemed to see everything. His alpha scent hit Peter like a warm wave—rich sandalwood, polished metal, aged scotch, and an undercurrent of raw power that felt steady rather than threatening. Secure dominance. The kind that didn’t need to prove itself with violence.
“Peter Parker,” Tony said, voice smooth and slightly raspy. He took a seat at the head of the table, scanning the resume the panel had prepared. “MIT-level grades at Empire State, impressive personal projects, and you’re only eighteen. Either you’re a prodigy or you sold your soul. Which is it?”
Peter’s cheeks flushed. “Prodigy, I hope, Mr. Stark.”
The conversation shifted. Tony asked deeper questions—probing Peter’s thought process on ethical AI use, improvisation under pressure, and real-world applications. Peter answered honestly, passionately. For nearly an hour, he felt seen. Valued for his intellect rather than his body or designation.
Tony leaned back, studying him with a faint smile. “You’ve got fire, kid. I like that. The internship is yours if you want it. Paid, full lab access, mentorship opportunities. Starts Monday.”
Peter’s eyes widened. “Really? Thank you! I- I won’t let you down!”
As the meeting wrapped, Tony stood and offered his hand. His grip was firm but not crushing—warm, grounding. Peter felt a flicker of something in his chest, quickly suppressed. Omega instincts reacting to a strong, safe alpha. Nothing more.
“Take care of yourself, Parker,” Tony said quietly as Peter turned to leave. “You look like you’ve been burning the candle at both ends.”
Peter nodded and escaped before his mask could crack.
The ride home was a mix of elation and dread. He had the internship. A summer away from the diner, surrounded by genius and opportunity. But Quentin…
The alpha was home early. The moment Peter stepped inside, Quentin’s nostrils flared.
“You smell like alphas. Strong ones.” His voice was deceptively calm as he set down his beer.
“It was a group interview—” Peter began.
Quentin moved fast. The back of his hand cracked across Peter’s cheek with brutal force, snapping his head sideways. Pain exploded across his face, stars bursting behind his eyes as his lip split open. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth instantly.
“Don’t lie to your alpha,” Quentin snarled, grabbing the front of Peter’s shirt with both fists. Fabric tore slightly under the strain. He dragged Peter roughly down the short hallway into the bedroom, Peter stumbling to keep up, feet barely touching the ground. “You think you can come home smelling like other alphas and just smile about it? After everything I do for you?”
Peter’s back hit the bedroom doorframe as Quentin shoved him inside. “Alpha please—I didn’t do anything—”
“Strip.” The command was ice-cold. Quentin released his shirt only to backhand him again, lighter but still stinging, reinforcing control. “Now. Slowly. I want to see every inch that belongs to me.”
Tears pricked Peter’s eyes as his fingers fumbled with the tie, then the buttons of his shirt. Each piece of clothing was removed under Quentin’s watchful, jealous gaze. The shirt slid off, revealing the bruises on his wrists and the bite on his shoulder. Pants followed, then underwear, until Peter stood naked and vulnerable in the center of the room, arms instinctively trying to cover himself.
Quentin circled him slowly, like a shark. One hand trailed over Peter’s chest, pinching a nipple hard enough to draw a whimper. “Look at you. Already marked up from last night and still tempting others.” His hand dropped lower, cupping Peter’s cock and balls possessively, squeezing. “This is mine. Your slick, your hole, your mind—everything.” He leaned into the omega’s ear. “Get on the bed.”
Peter obeyed, climbing onto the mattress on all fours, knees spread, back arched submissively. He buried his face in the pillow, bracing.
Quentin took his time undressing, letting the anticipation build terror. When the bed dipped rough hands spread Peter’s cheeks, exposing him. A thick finger probed roughly, testing the lingering slick from fear and biology. “Already wet for it. Greedy omega.” Quentin lined up his cock. “You don’t need any prep,” the Alpha thrusted into the hilt in one savage motion, “do you baby?”
Peter screamed into the pillow as the burn tore through him, his body struggling to accommodate the sudden intrusion. Quentin set a punishing rhythm immediately—deep, brutal strokes that slammed Peter’s hips into the mattress. The sound of skin slapping skin filled the room, mixed with Peter’s muffled sobs and Quentin’s grunts.
“Fuck, so tight.” Quentin’s hand fisted in Peter’s curls, yanking his head back sharply. “Tell me who you belong to.”
“I’m yours—alpha—only yours!” Peter gasped between thrusts. Tears streamed down his face. The pain was overwhelming, but his omega body produced more slick, easing the way even as it humiliated him. Quentin’s knot began to swell, catching at his rim with every pull.
The alpha leaned over him fully, chest to back, biting down on the unmarked side of Peter’s neck as he rutted harder. “No one else gets this. Nobody. Not anyone. I’ll fuck the thought of them out of you.” His free hand reached around to stroke Peter roughly, edging him mercilessly while whispering endless degradations.
When Quentin’s knot finally locked fully inside, swelling massively and trapping them together, he came with a roar, flooding Peter with pulse after pulse of hot seed. The pressure against Peter’s prostate forced his own orgasm, leaving him shaking and spent, body betraying him with pleasure amid the pain.
Even after the knot began to deflate, Quentin stayed buried deep, grinding lazily, drawing out the torment for nearly twenty more minutes with whispered threats and possessive touches.
When he finally pulled out, Peter collapsed, leaking cum and trembling. Quentin stood, satisfied. “Clean yourself up. And shower twice—I don’t want to smell anyone but me on you tomorrow.”
Peter lay there as Quentin left the room.