#everyone needs therapy

[melissymel]

Idk if I’d file The Pitt under “Ultimate Green Flags” when it comes to love, HBO..

[httpslalys]

Ghost in Brooklyn

Based on a TikTok by @/emptyjunior

Peter Parker erased himself from everyone’s memory… but apparently not from Bucky Barnes’ paranoia. When Bucky finds a small, fast, suspiciously sharp kid in Brooklyn, he’s convinced Hydra made another Winter Soldier—or maybe, somehow, this is his secret son. Peter doesn’t correct him. Not even once. What starts as a wild theory spirals into a fragile, chaotic sort of family, complete with impossible lies, and two grown men losing their minds over a kid who just wants to survive.

PART ONE (of many)

Peter Parker was getting good at being invisible.

Not the real kind—he wasn’t suddenly Sue Storm or anything—but the other kind. The survival kind. The kind where you slouched just enough, looked down at the sidewalk, walked like you belonged anywhere but noticed everything. Nobody noticed a tired kid in a thrift-store hoodie carrying a backpack one strap away from breaking. Nobody cared.

Peter was running late. Again. Rent due, shifts at the diner stacking up, patrol hours eating what little sleep he had—his life was a never-ending blur. So naturally, he didn’t notice when he almost plowed headfirst into Bucky Barnes on the sidewalk.

“Oh hey, Bu— no”

The name was out before Peter could stop it, a slip of the tongue, a ghost from another life. His chest seized up with the reminder: no one remembers you. Not MJ, not Ned, not Happy. Not the Avengers. Not this man with the metal arm staring at him as if he were a problem.

Peter swallowed, forced his lips into something that might look like a nervous smile. “Uh—sorry, man. My bad,” and quickly rushed away.

And then it happened—barely a blip in the current of the street. Some guy with a shopping bag stumbled too close, about to clip Peter in the shoulder. Without thinking, Peter shifted. A smooth sidestep, efficient, precise. The kind of dodge you didn’t learn on the playground—you learned it because getting hit meant pain, meant punishment, meant failure.

Bucky’s pulse ticked higher.

The kid didn’t even look rattled. He just slid past the man like he’d been doing it all his life, eyes scanning the sidewalk, hands flexing inside his sleeves. Like muscle memory. Like training.

Bucky’s jaw tightened. That wasn’t normal. That was familiar.

Bucky’s hand went to the comm in his jacket.

“Sam,” he muttered.

“Oh lord,” Sam groaned immediately, static fuzzing with his exasperation. “What is it now? You see another suspicious pigeon?”

“I think Hydra made another one.”

Silence.

Then: “…Another what, Buck?”

“Another soldier.” Bucky’s voice was low, steady, eyes never leaving the kid who was now pretending to tie his shoe but was clearly cataloguing exits. “Small package. Real fast. Looks like he’s running training drills, just walking down the street.”

Sam exhaled so hard that Bucky’s earpiece crackled. “You think this random scrawny teenager is a sleeper assassin?”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed. The kid brushed against a grocery bag and his hand twitched toward his sleeve. “Classic move. They taught us to keep knives up the arm. You don’t forget that kind of muscle memory.”

“…Or maybe he just doesn’t like getting smacked with a baguette.”

But Bucky was already cataloguing: weight distribution, reflex timing, hyper-awareness. He’d seen this before. He’d lived this before.

And then another thought hit him, slow, unsettling, ridiculous but not impossible.

“Sam,” Bucky muttered.

“Oh no.”

“What if… this is my kid.”

Sam choked. “WHAT?”

“I don’t remember everything from those years. What if—”

“Bucky. No. Absolutely not. You cannot just see a traumatized teenager and decide you accidentally fathered a child soldier during your brainwashed murder-tour. That’s—no.”

But Bucky’s stomach had dropped, guilt curling hot and sharp. He’d never know everything Hydra had done to him. What if this was a piece of it, staring him in the face?

Bucky had heard the whispers before, back in the dark years when Hydra controlled every breath he took. Files he wasn’t supposed to see, experiments he wasn’t supposed to know about. Soldiers forced together like breeding stock, the promise of stronger, faster offspring—a new generation of “pure” weapons. He didn’t remember much, but he remembered enough: a cold room, a clipboard, the words “super soldier lineage.” He’d buried it for years, too sick to face the possibility. But watching the kid—too fast, too sharp, too scarred for his age—Bucky couldn’t shake the thought. What if Hydra had done it? What if, without his consent, they’d made a son out there? And what if this boy was him?

Meanwhile, Peter Parker was having the worst day of his life—again.

Because not only did no one remember him, but now James “The Winter Soldier” Barnes was staring at him like he was about to haul him off to interrogation. And Peter couldn’t say anything, because what was he supposed to do? “Hey, you actually know me, I fought Thanos with you, I cried in Tony Stark’s arms when I died and came back, but magic brain-wipe erased me from your memory.”? Yeah. That’d go over great.

So instead, he hunched his shoulders and muttered, “…Gotta go,” before darting down an alley.

Big mistake.

Bucky followed.

Peter’s sneakers slapped against the wet pavement, backpack bouncing with every stride. He told himself he wasn’t running—Spider-Man never ran. He was just… moving quickly. Efficiently.

Except his heart was hammering and his spider-sense buzzed like a hive of hornets: followed, followed, followed.

He glanced over his shoulder.

There. Metal arm catching the faint glow of a streetlight. Bucky Barnes, expression unreadable, eyes locked on him like a predator that had already chosen its prey.

“Crap,” Peter whispered. He cut sharply down an alley, sprang onto a dumpster, and vaulted the chain-link fence at the end. His landing was light, cat-quiet. Any normal guy would’ve lost him there.

But Bucky wasn’t normal.

Peter turned just in time to see the man scale the fence with mechanical precision, dropping down silently on the other side like a shadow peeled off the wall.

Peter’s shoulders slumped. He could keep running—swing up onto the rooftops and vanish. But exhaustion clung to his bones like lead. He’d been running in one way or another ever since Doctor Strange’s spell, and for once… he just couldn’t.

So he turned.

Bucky slowed a few paces away, not raising his hands, not drawing a weapon. But his stance was rigid, eyes sharp, like he was bracing for something explosive.

“What do you want?” Peter asked. His voice came out harsher than intended.

Bucky tilted his head, studying him. Up close, the kid looked even younger. Hoodie sleeves frayed at the cuffs, dark circles carved beneath wary eyes. But beneath the fragility was something practiced. A stance, a coiled readiness. Not learned on the streets. Learned in training.

“I need to know who you are.”

Peter’s throat dried. “I told you. Nobody.”

“That’s not true,” Bucky said flatly. His jaw tightened as he scanned Peter’s posture, his micro-movements, the way he flinched at a clattering bottle down the alley. Hyper-vigilant. Too hyper. “You move like a soldier.”

Peter’s pulse skipped. Not a soldier. A friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. But he couldn’t say that. Wouldn’t. Not anymore.

Bucky stepped closer, shadows deepening in his expression. “I know what Hydra did. I’ve seen their files. Heard the whispers. Soldiers forced together, made to… create children.” His lips twisted with disgust at the word. “They wanted strong, fast offspring. Weapons. Pure-blooded super soldiers. They called it ‘lineage.’”

Peter froze.

Bucky’s voice grew quieter, rawer. “I don’t remember everything. Whole years are just… gone. But I remember enough. Enough to know it’s possible. And then I see you. Small. Sharp. Too fast. Too trained. You look at me like you know me.” He swallowed hard, gaze unflinching. “What if Hydra made you from me?”

The silence was suffocating.

Peter’s instinct was to laugh it off, to deny everything. To say, No, you’re wrong, I’m just some kid from Queens who screwed up his life.

But he didn’t.

Because the truth was worse. The truth was that no one remembered him. No one claimed him. And here was Bucky Barnes, of all people, staring at him with eyes filled not just with suspicion, but… responsibility.

And Peter wanted that. Just for a second. He wanted to be someone’s.

His chest ached as he whispered, “…What if you’re right?”

Bucky’s breath hitched. “Then—then I’m not leaving you out here.”

Peter looked down at his scuffed sneakers. “You think I’m yours.”

“I think Hydra would’ve done anything to make another weapon,” Bucky said, voice shaking with fury, he wasn’t aiming at Peter. “If that’s what happened to you… Then you didn’t choose it. And that means you’re not alone. Not anymore.”

Peter’s throat closed. His eyes burned. He bit the inside of his cheek until the sting grounded him, but it didn’t stop the smallest, betraying whisper from slipping out:

“I don’t wanna be alone anymore.”

And just like that, Bucky’s expression softened. Not much. But enough. The rigid suspicion gave way to something heavier, almost protective.

He took a step back, deliberately slow, giving Peter space. “Then come with me. Just… let me help.”

Peter looked up at him, torn between fear and relief. Between the truth he could never say and the lie that, for once, felt safer.

And against every rational thought screaming in his head, Peter nodded.

The diner was mostly empty, just the hum of fluorescent lights and the faint hiss of bacon on the griddle. A waitress refilled coffee for a trucker slumped in the corner booth, then left Bucky and Peter to their own little bubble of silence.

Peter sat across from Bucky, hoodie half-zipped, fingers tugging at the frayed strings like they were lifelines. His backpack was tucked close to his side, ready to grab if he needed to bolt.

Bucky, on the other hand, was still half in soldier mode, scanning every person who walked in, every movement by the door. But his focus kept coming back to Peter—watching, measuring, cataloguing.

When the waitress dropped off two plates of eggs and toast, Peter mumbled a quick thanks. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until the smell hit him. He tore into the food like someone who didn’t know when the next meal was coming.

Bucky noticed.

And that hurt worse than he expected.

Finally, he cleared his throat. “How long?”

Peter froze, mid-bite. “…How long what?”

“How long’s it been since you got out.”

Peter blinked. “Got out?”

Bucky’s gaze was steady. “Hydra.”

Oh. Right. That lie.

Peter swallowed hard. He’d gotten himself into this, and now he had to play along. He thought fast, spinning threads of truth and trimming out names, places, the whole Spider-Man of it all.

“Since I was… fifteen,” Peter said slowly. It wasn’t technically a lie—he’d been bitten then, changed then, forced into a life he hadn’t asked for. “Things happened. They… tested me. Wanted to see what I could do.”

Bucky’s fists clenched around his coffee mug. “Bastards.”

Peter’s stomach twisted. “After a while, I got out. But no one knew me. No one… cared.” His voice cracked on that last word before he bit it back. “So I just… kept going.”

Bucky was silent for a long time. Just watching him.

Finally, he leaned back, metal arm glinting under the neon lights. “You remind me of me. Hungry. Jumping at shadows. Not knowing if you’re your own person or just what they made you.”

Peter looked down at his plate, pushing eggs around with his fork. “Sometimes I don’t even know who I am without them.” Without May, without MJ, without Ned, without… anyone.

Bucky leaned forward, voice low, steady. “You’re not theirs. You’re not Hydra. And you’re sure as hell not nobody.”

Peter’s chest ached. He wanted to believe it. Even if Bucky was wrong about the details—even if this whole thing was a lie—there was truth buried in the way Bucky looked at him. Like he mattered.

But Bucky wasn’t done.

He asked about training, about missions, about how Peter had “escaped.” Each question was laced with a careful kind of fury, the protective rage of someone who knew too well what it meant to be used like a weapon.

Peter gave answers, each one a careful mix of fact and fiction. Queens became “a base on the east coast.” The spider bite became “an experiment with enhanced serums.” Tony Stark became “a scientist who tried to help me once, but it didn’t work out.”

He was building a new story out of scraps of the old, and Bucky was eating it up, nodding like it all made sense.

And with every question, with every lie, Peter dug himself deeper.

He knew he should stop. That this was insane. The longer he let Bucky believe, the harder it would be to undo.

But when Bucky’s voice softened—You’re safe now. You don’t have to do this alone anymore—Peter couldn’t make himself tell the truth.

Because maybe, for just one night, he didn’t want to be Spider-Man. Or a nobody.

Maybe, for one night, he wanted to be somebody’s kid.

The coffee between them had long since gone cold, but Bucky hadn’t noticed. He was leaning forward on his elbows now, sharp blue eyes fixed on Peter like he could pry open every locked door in his head.

“You said you got out at fifteen,” Bucky pressed. “How? Did someone pull you out? Or did you escape?”

Peter fiddled with his fork, stabbing at the toast he’d already demolished. His instinct was to tell the truth: I was bitten by a spider and ran straight into this life, no one pulled me anywhere.

But then Bucky’s jaw clenched, and his metal hand twitched against the tabletop, like he was already furious on Peter’s behalf. Furious at Hydra. Furious at the thought of a kid being trapped like he had been.

So Peter lied.

“I… escaped,” he said, voice quiet. “There was a mission. I ran while no one was looking. I don’t think they ever forgave me for it.”

Bucky’s expression hardened, and Peter felt a strange warmth bloom in his chest. The lie had worked. Not just because it convinced Bucky—but because for a second, someone was angry for him.

“And since then?” Bucky asked, tone softer now. “How’ve you been surviving?”

Peter tugged his sleeves down over his hands. “Odd jobs. Cash under the table. Just… keeping my head down.” Another lie woven from a half-truth. He had been working odd jobs, but not because he was a runaway super soldier. Because he was Peter Parker, broke and forgotten.

Bucky nodded slowly. “Smart. Stay invisible. But… that training. You’ve still been using it.”

Peter’s throat tightened. “Sometimes. When I have to.”

“Who taught you?”

Uncle Ben. May. Tony. Strange. Every Avenger you don’t even remember knowing.

Peter blinked hard and whispered, “They did. Back then. Before I ran.”

Bucky’s face went dark, and he muttered something sharp under his breath about Hydra bastards breaking kids.

Peter should’ve stopped. Should’ve told him it was a mistake, that Bucky had the wrong guy, that this whole thing was spiraling. But instead, he lied again.

Because it felt good.

Because for once, he wasn’t a nameless stranger in his own story. He wasn’t a boy erased from the world. He was somebody, and Bucky cared enough to keep asking.

“Do you… Remember your mother?” Bucky asked suddenly, voice quieter now, more uncertain.

Peter froze, a knife twisting under his ribs.

May’s face flashed in his head. Ben’s, too. His mom and dad, blurry and distant from old photos.

He could’ve said yes. He could’ve told Bucky everything. But instead, he swallowed and whispered, “No. Just a little. They didn’t want me to have attachments. Said it’d make me weak.”

Bucky’s whole body went rigid, and Peter felt his throat tighten with guilt. It wasn’t true—but it was close enough to his real hurt that it felt true.

And Bucky’s eyes—soft, furious, protective all at once—made Peter feel something he hadn’t felt in months: wanted.

So he didn’t stop. He kept lying, one thread at a time, building this false tapestry where he was Bucky’s kid, Hydra’s reject, a survivor of horrors that had nothing to do with radioactive spiders or forgotten magic.

And Bucky believed every word.

For a little while, that was enough.

Peter knew it would shatter later. He knew he’d have to face the truth.

But right now, in this dingy diner booth under buzzing neon lights, with Bucky watching him like he was something worth protecting—he let himself stay in the lie.

Just for tonight.

The diner’s neon sign flickered overhead as Peter poked at the last piece of toast, wishing he could disappear into the booth itself. Bucky sat across from him, metal arm resting on the table, fingers tapping in a rhythm that screamed impatience.

Finally, Bucky stood, stretching his shoulders. “Stay here. I need to make a call.”

Peter froze. “Call… who?”

“My partner,” Bucky said with a shrug that didn’t fool anyone. “He’ll understand.”

Peter’s stomach dropped. He knew exactly who “partner” meant. Sam Wilson. And he didn’t understand. Not in the slightest. Not yet.

Bucky pushed open the diner door and stepped into the night, the cold air brushing against his face. He pulled his comm from his jacket pocket and flicked it on.

“Sam,” he said, voice sharp and serious.

“Bucky. What is it?” Sam’s voice buzzed through the earpiece. “It’s late. You're calling me for what? Another pigeon?”

“I found him,” Bucky said, keeping his tone low but firm. “My kid.”

There was a long pause on the other end. Then, incredulity. “Wait… what?”

“My son. Right here in Brooklyn. He’s—” Bucky’s jaw tightened. “He’s small, fast, and trained. Hydra’s done a number on him, but he’s ours now. We’re keeping him safe.”

Sam exhaled, a mixture of disbelief and laughter cutting through the static. “Bucky… you do realize you’re not actually his dad, right?”

Bucky’s hand clenched around the comm. “I don’t care what the biology says. The kid needs me. He’s alone. I’m not letting him stay alone.”

“Bucky—” Sam started, but Bucky wasn’t done.

“And he’s smart. He’s funny. He’s… stubborn as hell. I’ve been asking him questions, giving him food, trying to figure out how much he remembers about… everything. And honestly?” Bucky’s voice softened, almost reluctant to admit it. “I think he’s scared. He doesn’t need the truth right now. He needs someone who cares. And that’s me.”

Silence. Sam groaned audibly. “Bucky, you’re literally sitting outside a diner in the middle of the night, calling me to tell me about a random teenager you decided is your son because he dodges people too fast. You—”

“He’s my kid, Sam,” Bucky cut in, voice ironclad. “And I’m not letting him go back to being nobody.”

Sam’s laugh finally broke through, shaky and disbelieving. “Oh my god… okay. I’m coming down. But you'd better have a good explanation, Buck. Otherwise, I’m dragging both of you back to the tower, and I’m not explaining anything to anyone.”

Bucky pressed the comm back into his pocket. “Fine. But… make it quick. He’s waiting.”

Meanwhile, inside the diner, Peter was hunched over his plate, trying not to choke on the last bite of toast while Bucky’s words echoed in his head. My kid. He thinks I’m his kid.

Peter swallowed.

Slowly.

Carefully.

He didn’t correct him.

He didn’t deny it.

{NOTE: soooooooo, I don't know what I'm doing. This will either be a crack fic or genuine angst. All I know is that I'm creating as I go. Anyways, next part up tomorrow, maybe. If not, then the latest Saturday! Omg also, I figured out how to post on A03 so this is on there now too!! Ghost in Brooklyn by edensgarden5370}

[dazzling-raven]

This was basically the last two seasons, right?

[corrupted-fates]

I thought about this Running Man Animation au for a while after my hyperfixation of this show came back to haunt me but basically what if the RM became feral.

With six of them being children, one having been brainwashed with a drug for an amount of time, all seven of them having been put into near death situations, fought/sealed a literal god,two having witness everyone die in the past.

Shortly after that six of them get falsely arrested and put into a survival game to gain their freedom only to the have to fight an evil priest who turns into a gigantic mass of dark energy.

Not long after they leave and come back to Tree City,they have to deal with the Leo tribe and another whole near world ending situation happened.(I actually haven't seen this part of the season yet due to that time of my life I didn't have time to watch it so I'm watching this later)

I'm not sure what happens in Running Man : Revengers since I just heard about this and Running Man : Light & Shadow isn't released internationally yet. But from the edit/clips that I've seen on Tiktok, that probably would cause some kind of side effect.

So with the stress, pressure and trauma from these events would cause them to become feral.

[teyvat-academy-au]

UA's exercises somehow always ended up with someone severely injured *ahem* Izuku *ahem*. No safety regulations, limits, or regulations.

In summer training camp, they can't stop whatever they are doing until they physically and mentally exhaust themselves with Aizawa in charge. The students, after a whole day of surviving, still have to cook for themselves.

Despite the purpose of helping them to get stronger, forcing them to do everything and anything to achieve it. Instead of increasing security to protect the students, they move their students to cram in their growth to protect themselves in an unhealthy way. Not to mention, Aizawa enables it because he sees it as the right way, because he blames himself for ... Oboro.

TA: And they say our methods are unsafe and harmful.(⁠・⁠_⁠・⁠;⁠)

Nahida, looking at all this mess: That won't do. You get therapy, and you get therapy, everyone gets therapy!!

[bubblygum-crkauasks]

Someone should like... check on Shadow Milk...

and maybe get him into therapy

A lot of characters in this au need therapy.

[zhelin-thames]

Dottore should NEVER—I mean NEVER—be allowed within a 500 mile radius of:

Light Yagami Because the second they start debating morality, the global homicide rate triples and this partnership fails because both of them have superiority complexes the size of Jupiter and would eventually attempt to kill each other over who gets to monologue first.

L Lawliet L would figure him out in 12 minutes and Dottore would dedicate the next 12 years to being annoying about it.

L would take one look at Dottore and immediately go: “Interesting. You smile too often when discussing medical ethics. Statistical probability of crimes against humanity: 97.4%.” And Dottore— who normally manipulates entire nations effortlessly— would become irrationally obsessed with the fact that some weird barefoot detective clocked him in under fifteen minutes. Dottore would escalate SO hard. L: “You’re upset.” Dottore, building six new clones out of spite: “I don’t know what you mean.”

William Afton The phrase “child experimentation” would enter the chat and every god would immediately log off. This is less “mad scientists collaborating” and more “the universe creating a concentrated sphere of bad decisions.” Afton would show Dottore haunted animatronics and Dottore would react like he just discovered sliced bread. “You’re telling me the SOULS stayed attached to the machinery?”And then they’d both say “fascinating” at the same time and everyone within a fifty mile radius would need therapy.

Rick Sanchez At some point one of them says: “Okay but theoretically what happens if we force a god into a particle collider?” And then the multiverse starts buffering. Morty would die instantly from stress alone.

Makima Manipulation battle so toxic the atmosphere itself becomes a biohazard.

This isn’t a conversation. This is psychological warfare with eye contact. Makima would manipulate Dottore. Dottore would KNOW he’s being manipulated. Makima would know he knows. Dottore would manipulate her back just to see what happens. Meanwhile everyone around them is developing stress-induced migraines because the room feels like two apex predators politely discussing cannibalism over tea.

Orochimaru They’d exchange research notes like teenage girls swapping skincare routines. “Omg your human experimentation method is SO clean.”

They’d spend seventeen straight hours discussing immortality research while everyone else in the room slowly realizes they are witnessing the scientific equivalent of two nuclear bombs shaking hands. Kabuto would take notes. Dottore’s clones would take notes. The notes themselves would probably violate human rights.

Kenjaku No. Absolutely not. Kenjaku sees humanity as an experiment. Dottore sees morality as an obstacle. Together they would look at evolution itself and go: “Can we make it worse?” The phrase “for science” would become a planetary extinction event.

Even Sukuna would probably stare at them like: “what the hell is wrong with you people”

Osamu Dazai This one is dangerous because they would ENJOY each other. Dazai would instantly realize Dottore is completely insane. Dottore would instantly realize Dazai hides his intelligence behind clown behavior. And then they’d spend the next month psychologically tormenting each other for entertainment. No one would know whose side Dazai is on. INCLUDING Dazai. Meanwhile Dottore is having the time of his life because finally someone understands his sense of humor. Unfortunately their shared sense of humor is “creating irreversible emotional damage.”

Fyodor Dostoevsky The SECOND these two meet, church bells start ringing ominously somewhere. Their conversations would sound like this: Fyodor: “Sin is intrinsic to humanity.” Dottore: “Counterpoint: have you tried removing parts of the humanity?” And somehow it only gets worse from there. They would discuss mass suffering like wine critics discussing flavor profiles. The casualty count would become mathematically difficult to calculate.