Peter Stark tossed and turned in his sleep, mumbling deliberate pleas and begs for help, please, please, no I’m so sorry just please stop hurting me. 

It’s been the same nightmare for months. He’s had some form of this nightmare for eleven months, thirteen days and six hours, plus the six months spent in recovery. Much like the other horrible dreams before this one, he wakes up stuck, claustrophobic and strapped to cold metal. 

The first thing he felt was a sharp ringing pain from the back of his head as his eyes fluttered open. He finds himself in a dim-lighted room, unable to move. The feeling of being stuck triggered his claustrophobia, and Peter began to wheeze as panic overtook his body. And then out of nowhere, he appeared. And by “he”, Quentin Beck appeared. 

The man was silent as he fiddled with a blade, allowing his victim to inspect the tool that he was going to be tortured with. Peter’s face was sheen in sweat from all the days of torture before this one and before the silently crying boy knew it, metal was plunged in his chest and Peter screamed. 

White-hot furious pain rocketed through his body as the metal was sharply pulled out, drawing a spray of blood just to be forced back into flesh again. Another scream tore through Peter’s lips at the pain. As if it wasn’t enough, the collar fastened on his neck jolted, and electricity began to sizzle all over Peter’s bloodied form, drawing agonizing screams with it. 

Peter whimpered as tears rolled down his cheeks, “Just stop, please! I’m sorry, I'll be good, I promise!” He pleaded through sobs, “Just stop hurting me!” 

Beck paid no heed to Peter’s cries, and it stung even though Peter had already expected the lack of an answer. Beck spat vehemently at a sobbing Peter, “You pathetic scum, you disgust me! Every ounce of your being is enough to rattle my disgust! It’s a wonder I haven’t killed you yet.” 

A creeping smile formed over Beck’s face as his eyes glittered darkly. He raised the blade over Peter’s heart, tilting his head as he pretended to contemplate the matter. The already evident unhealthy amount of panic in the boy’s body blossomed tenfold. His eyes widened, the asthma attacks that he hadn’t had in years crept up his throat, snaking a hold on his breathing and his vision suddenly blurred, unable to panic but at the same time only able to do so. 

“No, no, no” he yelled in anguish as metal was plunged into his heart. Peter screamed as he felt everything within him cut and break and then the darkness. 

Peter bolted upright, panting heavily as a hand firmly clutched the shirt material right over his heart, feeling it for any cuts or blood. The boy wasn’t aware that he was sobbing into his hands when the soft voice of his father, Tony Stark lured him, “Sweetheart, what’s wrong? Another bad dream?”  

Cold sweat dripped down Peter’s frame as the trembling boy threw himself in his father’s arms. Peter’s breathing is labored and his already hollowed eyes darken further, heavily resembling a lost man at churning, boiling waters. The only thing the traumatized child can feel is metal entering him and ripping out, slashing his mind and body until there’s more blood than life left in him. His breath is as shaky as his fingers, “Yeah.”

Tony sat too, pulling his son close to his chest, whispering soft reassurances to ground the boy back to reality. His touch is warm and soft which mirrors the tone of the father’s voice as he spoke, “Hey, kiddo, it’s okay, you’re okay, you’re okay. Ssh, I’m here.  “ He guided Peter’s head to his arc reactor, letting the boy sob all the pain out of his chest. Hating to see his baby so hurt, he moved one hand to tug on Peter’s stubborn curls and the other ran over clothed scars that littered Peter’s body. “Talk to me bear.” 

Peter shifted on his father’s lap, too haunted by the demons of his own conjuring to speak. He whimpered instead, making grabby hands towards Tony mentally pleading just hold me, please. 

As if Tony was telepathic, he complied, wrapping his arms around Peter, rocking the boy back and forth. One hand cupped Peter’s cheek, wiping off stray tears. He spoke surely yet kindly, “No one’s going to hurt you bud, no one will hurt you again, I promise.” It pained the man to see his son so distraught. 

Peter started speaking, clutching his father for support, “I was back there again.” He shuddered, just the mere thought of that horrid place where he was held prisoner was enough to make bile creep up his throat. He sucked in a shaky breath, letting his eyes flutter shut momentarily to get himself back together. 

“I, I, can’t!” More tears spilled down the ashen boy’s face as he buried himself against his father’s chest, wishing to be sucked into the embrace where he wouldn’t have to deal with the horrors of the world. 

“Yes you can,” Tony persisted. He carded the back of Peter’s head, starting at the nape of his son’s neck and moving upward, “I know you can. You know that you can tell me right? It’ll make you feel better, even if you’re scared, it’s okay. I know my Peter is so brave.” 

He’s back there again with rattling chains pinning his wrists down to cold metal, but the metal isn’t as cold as the one that’s drawing blood from his neck. Beck stood over him, a too-wide smirk for Peter’s liking rested upon his lips, “Well, it looks like the little pest is up. Good, now we can get on with today’s fun.” 

Fun. Peter hated that part. The part where Quentin would tell him exactly what he was going to do to Peter like he was a little kid meant to be hurt and broken. 

Tony sensed the boy falling back into the complicated matters of his head. “Peter,” he whispered, so tired but never of holding his son, “Peter, kid, you’re okay. It’s just a bad dream. Open those eyes for me?” 

Peter whined, but his eyes cracked open. He’s shaking between Tony’s arms, biting down so hard on his hand that the elder man noticed a trail of blood running down his knuckles.

Tony gently pried Peter’s bloody fists away from his mouth, interlocking his fingers with Peter’s. “Hey buddy,” the man greeted softly, catching the kid’s gaze. Peter’s shaking stilled as his father rubbed a thumb against his temple soothingly. Tony smiled sadly,  “What did I tell those nightmares last night, huh?" He ruffled Peter's hair,  "My kid is off-limits; only good dreams are allowed. Iron Man decrees it.”

Peter inhaled sharply in  an attempt to calm down, but his breathing caught a sob as he exhaled. He covered his face with both of his blood-tainted hands and dissolved into fresh cries, leaning into Tony as the man held the back of his head and pulled him close to his chest.

“You can tell me anything, Pete,” he offered gently, as he has every night since he got his son back. “I’m here for you.”

It's hard. So hard to talk about the horrors that he sees every time he closes his eyes. It's hard to talk about the anxiety that filled his gut and sometimes to this day still does. And Tony knows, if anything, he knows the pain too well. It’s already hard for the father, but seeing his son writhe in pain as his chest seizes uncontrollably from the pain that causes tears to trickle down, it’s so much worse. Three thousand times worse. 

Peter’s voice is meek as he revealed, “He killed me. Just like he said he would.”  

Tony dropped his gaze down to the bundle in his arms, “Baby, it’s not real. It’s just a dream, and besides,” he mustered a confident smile, “There’s no way I was going to let that happen.” He wiped away stray tears off Peter’s face, “Never in a bajillion years. And yes, that’s a real number.” 

Peter didn’t feel the same way as silence lingered between the two. A part of him felt weak and useless, he was Spiderman, and it had been months since his father had rescued him from that awful hellhole, yet he still couldn’t be Peter. He was stuck in this mood of pain and sadness. He was so tired all the time, and all he wanted was to sleep in his dad’s arms, the only place he knew without a doubt that he’d be safe in. He hated how much he struggled. He inquired quietly, “Am I broken?” His voice was soft and pleading, craving to hear the answer that would bring him some more sanity in his life. 

Tony cupped his son’s face, forcing Peter to look up at the former, “No, never. ” He shook his head lightly for emphasis, “You Peter, are the best thing in my life. You light up my world like nobody else. You know that?” He carded his son’s stubborn curls, feeling as soothing as they did since Peter was a baby, “I love you so much, you’re perfect just the way you are. You have no idea how better my life is because of you. With you in my life, you’re my greatest creation.” 

“Hey,” Tony spoke softly, “Kid, look at me. Please?” 

Peter reluctantly raised his watering eyes to find solace, comfort, and more importantly, strength in his father’s eyes. 

“You are so strong,” Tony said as he gently curled the edges of his fingers over Peter’s shoulders, “so goddamn strong. It’s in our blood bud, Starks are made of iron. And iron doesn’t break. And neither will you. You are the best thing in my life. And don’t you ever forget it okay?” 

Peter nodded, throwing himself around his father once again as the waterworks combusted. 

Tony smiled into Peter’s head, “It’s okay, it’s okay, ssh. What do you need? Whatever you want.”

Peter replied softly, “Can you hold me?” 

Tony wiped Peter’s face with his sleeves, “Of course I can, come here.”

A/N: could you guys follow my Instagram accounts? They're @the_scarlet_witcher and I started another one for comic edits @scarletscaptain and it'd be great if you guys could follow. I mean you don't have to.

How have you been today? Today was kinda draining ngl, some stuff happened that I'd rather not talk about but it was my fault anyways and after apologizing my mind started spiralling how they hate me and they'll never want to see me and then I almost has an anxiety attack during online class and I have a really bad guilt complex where I keep feeling super bad whenever I mess up. But it's given me one good thing: the inspiration to finish a fix that I hadn't touched since early February so that's a plus right?

And I'm taking requests again. And puns/ jokes.