the-wordbutler:

markfluffyruffalo:

You push and you work hard, you stay positive and eventually all the stars sort of align.

Before Bruce is officially Uncle Bruce, before he’s married and a father, he’s Dot’s not-quite godfather, and they go on dates.

Tony starts it, of course, demanding biweekly goddaughter time and “allowing the dads time to screw like bunny rabbits” (his words, never uttered in Dot’s three-year-old presence). They have tea parties and go to movies, they watch cartoons and play dress-up, and one weekend, Bruce tags along to an ice cream parlor with them.

Two weeks later, he’s unshaven and in his pajamas when Tony Stark walks into his house with his goddaughter on his hip. Her face is wet. Bruce is confused.

“She wants you to come,” Tony says, flapping a hand. “She says you have to come from now on because you came last time, and she’s crying, so I think—”

“Bruce,” Dot half-whines, and reaches for him. He plucks her out of Tony’s grip, and she clings around his neck. “You hafta come too.”

Her voice is slurred from crying. Worse, Tony looks panicked.

“Can I get dressed?” he asks, and both his friend and the toddler relax before they agree.

They go to a place where you can decorate pottery, and then to lunch, and then to the park. Tony takes a million pictures, and Bruce only rolls his eyes twice.

(When Dot’s eight, she hears the story for the first time—and laughs. “I just knew you had to be together forever,” she decides.

“You’re a menace,” Tony retorts, but he also leans against Bruce like he’s glad to have a menace in their lives.)

Captain Fluffybritches Makes a Friend (And So Does Sam Wilson)

the-wordbutler:

Remember how I promised to post an adorable fic I wrote about when Sam and Riley met Steve and Bucky? Yeah, I almost forgot about it.

Almost.

Lucky for you, I remembered.

A couple years back—a lifetime ago, really, in the days where he slept like a caveman and waited for letters from home (not home the place but home the person)—Sam overheard one of the guys talking about how, sometimes, little kids are drawn to broken people. “Well, kids and dogs,” the guy’d joked, and Sam’d grit his teeth to keep from reaching over and punching the laughter right out of him.

Broken people, he’d scrawled in a letter a couple days later, the sand beating against the roof like the world’s most persistent hail. Who the fuck says that, huh? Who the fuck thinks we’re not all coming out of this broken?

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This is totally one of my favourite things this week. If you’re not reading Motion Practice, consider this your gateway drug.