#tony stark is Italian

[wynnd-citrus]

Italian dad forehead kisses hehehehehe I love them

THIS IS NOT ST@RKER ‼️‼️‼️ ST@RKERS DNI OR YOU WILL BE BLOCKED WITHOUT HESITATION 🤮

[incorrect-maraudersaandco-quotes]

Barty: due tazze di caffè, per favore

Evan:

Barty: What?

Evan: Since when do you speak Italian?

Barty: My mom is Italian

Evan: Since when?

Barty:

Barty: Since her birth

[robertdowneyjjr]

tiramistake

for @meidui

—

“Hey babe,” Steve greets as he exits the elevator and finds Tony splayed across the couch in the common room. He beelines towards his boyfriend as Clint follows him out with a plastic bag in hand.

“Got you dessert,” Clint says, placing the bag on the coffee table. “Your favorite.”

“Ooh!” Tony makes grabby hands at the bag as he lifts himself into a sitting position. “Gimme.”

Steve takes the container out of the bag but moves it out of reach just as Tony is about to take it from him. “Just so you know, I told him this wasn’t a good idea,” he says before handing the box over along with a fork.

Tony frowns. “That’s silly. Tiramisu is never a bad idea.” He eagerly opens the box, cracking the plastic lid as he does so. Without another word, he sinks his fork into the cake as his two friends watch. They know he never shares his tiramisu anyway.

A bit of cake drips from his fork as he lifts it towards his mouth. Weird, but he shrugs it off mentally. Maybe the cream just melted a bit on their way back to the tower.

He takes his first bite, relishing the richness of the chocolate powder. Then the rest of the taste hits him. He looks at the container and digs around the cake, analyzing it.

“It doesn’t taste like coffee,” he tells Clint. He lifts up another forkful, looking at the cake from every angle. “Why is there no texture? Where are the ladyfingers?” He takes a bite again. There’s nothing but cream and chocolate powder. And some orange liquid that keeps dripping off the damn fork.

“I think there’s a ladyfinger in the bag,” Clint says, digging through the plastic. He pulls out a small paper bag. “Yup, here it is.”

“A ladyfinger. Singular. As in one lone ladyfinger.” Tony squints into the paper bag as he takes it from Clint. “And it’s… crunchy.”

“I think you’re supposed to dip it in the cream,” Clint says. As if that’s a normal thing to do when eating tiramisu. Next to Tony, Steve covers his face with a hand and sinks deeper into the couch cushions.

“Remind me where you guys went for lunch again?”

His other hand joins the first as Steve mumbles, “That new Thai place down on 42nd.”

“But you got dessert where?”

“At the Thai place, obviously,” Clint responds. “I saw tiramisu on the menu and knew we needed to get it for you.”

Right. Obviously.

“You got tiramisu from a Thai restaurant.”

“Duh. It’s Thai milk tea tiramisu. Neat twist, right?”

That explains the drippy orange mess.

Tony places the container of cream back on the coffee table and stands up. Pointing at Clint, he demands, “Birdboy, come with me.” He pauses as he nears the elevator and turns back to Steve. “You’re coming too.”

He leads them to the garage and herds them into the first car he finds, then gets behind the wheel. For the first time in a long time, he drives silently, with no music playing or idle conversation to pass the time. Even as Clint asks over and over again where they’re going, Tony does nothing but stew in a deep kind of sadness that he had never felt before.

When Tony finally pulls over half an hour later, Steve sucks in a deep breath. “We’re really in it this time,” he mutters as he gets out of the car.

“Alright, Stark. This is getting weird. Why are we here?”

Tony can only glare at Clint for a moment before he turns on his heels and walks through the gates, knowing the other two men will follow. When he finally reaches his destination, he spares Clint only another glance before he faces forward again to look at Maria Carbonell Stark’s headstone.

“Apologize.”

“What?!”

Tony huffs and looks back at Clint. “Apologize to my mother, Barton. What you did today was disrespectful.”

“Excuse me?”

Turning once again to where his mom is laid to rest, Tony whines. “He gave me an abomination and called it tiramisu, mama. That was mean. And gross. You would be so disgusted. If he doesn’t apologize you should totally haunt his ass.”

“Hey! I don’t want to be haunted by your mother’s ghost!”

“Then apologize.”

“Fine!” Clint steps forward and grumbles, “I’m real sorry, Mrs. Stark. It won’t happen again.” He turns to Tony. “I hate you. But I’m sorry. I honestly thought you might like it.”

“You’re forgiven.”

Tony turns to his other side, where Steve is trying his best to muffle his laughter behind his fist.

“Now you. Apologize.”

Steve’s hands fall to his sides as his jaw drops. “Me? What did I do?”

“You didn’t try harder to stop him. You’re supposed to protect me,” Tony says indignantly.

“Alright, fine.” Steve sighs as he steps up to speak. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I’ll never let your son taste another bad tiramisu again for as long as I live.”

“Remember you can always haunt them if they go back on their word, mama. Okay, love you, I’ll be back soon!” Tony turns to go, holding Steve’s hand as they walk back to the car where Clint is already waiting. “Now let’s go get me some real cake.”

[denebolablack]

*Bucky and Steve relaxing in Tony's lab couch while they wait for him to come home*

Steve: Tony inherited his looks from Howard.

Bucky: Yup.

Steve: What do you think he inherited from his mom?

Bucky: *Shrugs and takes a long sip of soda*

Tony: *Out of nowhere* My mental disorders.

Steve: *Screams*

Bucky: *Spits out his drink*

Tony: *Chuckles* Oh, and also my love for playing the piano and cooking italian food.

Bucky: Doll, I love you, but next time you give me a heart attack like that I can't promise I won't shoot you.

Tony: *Smiles smugly* I really wanna see you try.

Steve: *Moaning* Boys, stop.

Tony: Sorry oh captain my captain *Kisses his Brooklyn's boys noses and walks away* If you both hurry, maybe you can join me on the shower.

Bucky: Move that America's ass punk! Our love has spoken.

Steve: Don't get all bossy, Bucks. That's Tony's work.

[popcorn-plots]

no but Tony proposing to Stephen in Italy

[apollo11fangirl]

We all know that Tony can't cook, but what if he can only cook Italian food. Like somehow Maria taught him how to cook her food really well. It's to the point that he can't stand any other Italian food that an't his own.

Rhody and Pepper know all about it, but the Avengers only learn when Steve tries to make some and Tony takes over the kitchen since Tony see him do it all wrong. The best team dinners when Tony cooks.

The same thing happens with British deserts thanks to Ana, Jarvis, and Peggy.

[space-mermaid-writing]

Okay, listen!

Tony as a tailor

Stark Tailoring Inc.

Tony wears reading glasses when taking measurements. And Tony has to step on a small footstool when he fits a suit on Stephen because the Doc is so freakishly tall it’s unfair!

Stephen getting all flustered when Tony is suddenly as tall as him and also right up in his face.

Peter is Tony's intern. He takes notes and writes everything down while Tony is doing fittings and muttering numbers and notes nonstop. And Peter is the perfect assistant because he actually understands what Tony means with his gibberish.

[cassiecasyl]

i love you berry much

Hi hi!! Did you miss me? Well, it’s Tony’s and my birthday so you know what that means!! I didn’t really feel all that fluffy today so have some hurt/comfort instead :3  read last years’: 2021 2022

The water lapped gently at the docks, driven by the soft spring night wind that was currently also playing with his hair. Peter let the constant rhythm lull him in, let it drown out the noise and laughter from the party behind him. The water slowly approached, running up just to crash against the wooden pillars in a splashing crescendo. Afterward, it always retreated, collecting itself for the next attempt. It was comforting like grass swaying, and familiar like words bouncing around his mouth, never sure when to leave. Like a hand gently tapping on his shoulder. 

A tiny tremor rippled through his body as he awoke. Peter turned and looked up to find Mr. Stark smiling at him. He was holding a brown basket of sorts. “Hey, kiddo, there you are! You were suddenly gone.” 

Peter blinked. The water seemed to have settled in his belly now, lapping at his skeleton. “You noticed?” 

His mentor’s eyebrows scrunched up slightly; maybe, there were rain clouds on the horizon. Peter swallowed and looked down. The rain would only hasten the erosion the lake had already begun. 

“Of course I noticed, Peter,” Mr. Stark said, his voice almost uncharacteristically soft. He settled down next to the boy and sat the basket down in front of them. It was filled with strawberries, Peter noted with confusion. The bright-red fruits shone with the promise of happiness that came with their sweet taste. 

“I will never not notice when my favorite Spiderling goes MIA,” he continued. 

I’m your only Spiderling, Peter wanted to say, but instead of taking the hook for deflection, he said: “I’m sorry.” This only deepened the clouds hanging over Tony’s features, and Peter damned the hail inside his soul. Though, before he could let it swallow him whole, there was a soft tap on his shoulder. Mr. Stark had opened his arms in question. Peter only hesitated a little before he leaned in. A content sigh escaped his lips as his weary body melted into the warm embrace. 

“What are you sorry for?” the man asked eventually. 

Peter hid his face against Mr. Stark’s chest. “For ruining your birthday,” he mumbled. 

“I’m sorry, kid, but you gotta speak up a little. I don’t have your super-hearing, unfortunately.” 

Peter huffed in frustration. His eyes down-trodden, he sat up a little, sucking in air. Mr. Stark rubbed over his shoulder blades in comfort. “I feel like I’m ruining your birthday,” he confessed. When he glanced up, Mr. Stark’s shocked and worried expression made the rain start falling. He was making everything worse. 

Instantly, Tony wrapped his arms around his kid again, rocking them slightly. Like grass swaying in the wind, Peter realized. The man’s heart drummed on in a beat faster than the water, but it was clear and sound. Safe. “No, no, no,” he whispered into Peter’s locks. “What gave you that idea? Did Nebula threaten you? Because I can assure you, she’s working on her violent tendencies.” 

Peter chuckled, and the clouds gave way for a single ray of sunshine. “No. It’s just— Everyone’s celebrating, and I’m just here being a downer and I don’t even know why. I mean, I didn’t even have a gift ready for you!” 

“Peter, listen to me. You being here, alive and in one piece, is the best gift you could ever give me. I don’t care if you gave me a thousand teddy bears or blew up the lab. I’m just glad you’re here.” 

“I’m glad you’re here too,” Peter said. Unconsciously, he had shifted so his ear was lying right over Mr. Stark’s heart. It had slowed a little now, but it was still beating steadily. On and on. No terrible silence in sight. Mr. Stark held him and the world became a little warmer. 

“A thousand teddy bears, huh?” the boy inquired after a while, his voice lighter than it had been in a while. 

“Oh no, don’t get any ideas,” Mr. Stark admonished lightly. “You know, I once gifted Pepper a giant teddy bear. Didn’t go over well…” 

Peter laughed. “You did what?” 

“I gave Pepper a giant teddy bear. It was like 10 feet tall or something. Pep was not amused, to say the least. To be fair, I was not doing great at the time,” he explained. 

“I bet Morgan would love it,” Peter pondered and burst out laughing at Mr. Stark’s pained expression. The man scooped up the bowl of strawberries and placed it into Peter’s hands. 

“Now, no more teddy bear shenanigans. Eat some. I know you haven’t eaten near enough at dinner and spiders gotta eat.” Peter blinked and took a strawberry. 

“Why do you even have these?” — he asked while munching — “I mean, is it even safe? Pepper’s allergic, and you always say Morgan comes after her.” 

“Because you like them,” Mr. Stark said as if it was the simplest thing. “And don’t worry, Morgan’s not allergic, she just prefers different fruits. I did get Pepper’s permission for once, too.” 

“Oh, wow, I’m proud!” Peter half-joked. “Also, Morgan is wrong because strawberries are clearly the best. My condolences to Mrs. Potts-Stark.” Tony chuckled and took one himself, quickly evading Peter’s wavy hands. 

“Thank you,” Peter said. 

Tony smiled and ruffled the boy’s hair. “Anytime, kid.” 

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, with Peter munching on his strawberries. The water continued to dance with the pillars, keeping up their rhythm. When most of the strawberries were gone, Peter considered the last ones carefully. He took one out, the biggest that was left, and presented it to the man beside him. 

“Mr. Stark? I love you berry much.” 

To Tony’s credit, he did not only roll his eyes at the pun, but also snorted. He took the strawberry with a thanking nod and bit into it. After it was gone, he pulled the kid close again and kissed the top of his head. “I love you strawberry much too, il mio bambino.” 

[malachia-il-bibliotecario]

how does every single dubbing in Italian suck so much

[angytaby1991]

Iron Man and Potts

[xovera-toz]

Peter: Tony has been trying to make heads and tails of my Italian school certificate

Peter: He swore he wouldn't use a translator because he's "got this"

Peter: It's been fifteen minutes of him staring at it

Peter: Funniest fifteen minutes of my life

[lunasquared]

This is my Tony being Italian and his mother would kill him if he couldn’t cook Italian food headcanon coming out here.

But like Tony did cook things for himself sometimes but it was only Italian food cause it was the only thing he knows how to cook. God forbid you let this man into a kitchen and ask him to make eggs or something but ask him to make homemade manicotti crepes and all he’s got you. His mother would’ve killed hom if he didn’t know how to make Italian food.

So when he’s not eating waffles and blueberries and some sort of fast food he’s eating manicotti that he pulled out of the freezer from that time he made like 50 of them. Or he’s making a quick batch of red sauce to go with his pasta. Hell this man could even pull off Chicken Francese if he was feeling fancy.

But ask him to make tacos or something or a dish that wasn’t a staple in his Italian household it’s burnt to a crisp everytime or completely inedible.

(Rhodey doesn’t understand how this happens cause Tony can cook a mean lasagna but somehow caught ramen noodles on fire the first time he tried to make them. For some reason these skill are not at all transferable for Tony and he can’t figure out why.)

(Peter is trying to figure out why Tony exclusively cooks Italian food then orders everything else. He’s not complaining he loves when Tony makes authentic Alfredo and complains about the stupid american version with cream or is making a huge batch of manicotti and is explaining how to make the crepes perfect but he just wants some enchiladas damn it. (Tony got mad when he made a joke that manicotti are Italian enchiladas.))

“Get out of my kitchen”

RDJ on Jimmy Kimmel Show (January 2024) mentioned that he has a chef who cooks for him and his family and I thought... unlike Robert or Batman with his Alfred, Tony had no chef… and since cooking was one of the few things he wasn't good at, and Pepper wasn’t in charge of it until Endgame… what the heck has he been eating all these years?

And I mean ALL the years since, let’s say the death of Edwin Jarvis, which we don’t know when happened.

I doubt Pepper cooked for him before they got married (coffee is not food). There’s no mention of it, and she had enough other responsibilities.

So looks like he ate fast food most of the time? At best, he ate in restaurants (including his jet), ordered takeout, or ate something that didn't require cooking. Like waffles, berries, fruits, or smoothies.

So basically, until he and Pepper started living together and Pepper had enough free time (after Thanos' snap) to cook, he didn't have homemade food. For decades.

Here are the only times we see him eating home-cooked food before Endgame:

Yinsen cooked for both of them in the cave, but the taste and nutritional qualities of this brew are questionable.

In AoU Laura Barton cooked for the whole team, but that was once.

Aunt May treats him to her walnut and date loaf.

All happened after he was captured and became Iron Man. Why didn't he have a chef to cook for him? It’s not like he had no money to hire one.

He was really bad at being a billionaire, wasn't he?

[jarvispoptart]

Tony Stark: *speaking Italian*

Steve Rogers: I know, I know.

Clint Barton: You speak Italian?

Steve Rogers: No. I just know the phrase, 'this is all your fault' in every language Tony speaks.

[popcorn-plots]

I am feeling better today, which is awesome, but I'm still under the weather (boo). I didn't sleep well last night and I have absolutely no appetite... I still need food, and I need to stay hydrated so I might make myself some mac n cheese for lunch then go binge watch Sherlock (my dad got be S1 from the library bc he knows that's my favorite show :3)

part 1 || part 2 || part 3

Stephen woke up again around lunch. The only reason he knew it was around lunchtime was because Tony had set up camp in Stephen's bed. He was sitting up on top of the covers, reading something on his stark pad while he combed his fingers through Stephen's hair.

Stephen, he soon realized, was practically curled up on Tony's lap, soaking in the other man's body heat. Because damn, Stephen was freezing.

"Hey, sleeping beauty." Tony murmured when Stephen moved to look up at him. "Wong said you weren't feeling well."

Stephen simply groaned in response. "wha's th' time?" He slurred, rubbing at his eye with a shaking hand.

"Nearly 1. I got here around noon. You slept all morning."

"hng."

"Yeah? You feeling any better?"

Stephen paused. His throat was still sore, and his body ached, but his headache was gone. At least he could think properly. "Little bit."

"That's good. Think you can handle some soup?" Tony asked, setting his StarkPad down on the bed.

"'M not hungry."

"I know you're not, but you need to stay hydrated. It's homemade chicken noodle?" That got Stephen's attention. Tony was pretty much a disaster in the kitchen (the cooking was Wong's domain) but pasta was the one thing Tony physically couldn't mess up. It didn't even matter what it was -- from chicken noodle soup to ramen to chicken carbonara, it was all devine. Tony credited it to his Italian side and the pasta his mom taught him to make.

Stephen sighed and pushed himself up, pulling the sheets with him. When he was fully upright and leaning against the headboard, duvet wrapped around him like a burrito, Tony kissed his forehead. "You're cute."

"Not cute. Hungry." Stephen muttered.

"I thought you weren't hungry?" Tony countered, a smile playing of the edges of his lips.

Stephen huffed. "'M always hungry for your food."

"Well in that case..." Reaching down, Tony pulled out a Tupperware container of chicken noodle soup with a s'up spoon and a little dinosaur themed kids bowl because, "I know you like dinosaurs, Stephen." (Stephen did, indeed, like dinosaurs).

Tony poured the soup -- still steaming -- into the bowl, only filling it halfway and setting it in Stephen's lap.

Stephen took to spoon from Tony and tried some of the soup. He could barely taste it, but it was warm and soothing. Stephen didn't have much of an appetite, but he still managed to finish half the bowl.

"Good job." Tony praised him. Stephen offered a half-smile and laid back down. "Why don't we get you into a quick shower, then you can finish your soup?"

Stephen buried his face in the pillows, despite how difficult breathing already was. "Don't wanna."

He knew he was being difficult, but the bed was extremely comfortable and he was too sore to move. Tony frowned slightly. "What if I joined you?"

Stephen turned his head to look at his boyfriend.

"I'll join you in the shower and get you all nice and cleaned up, then we can cuddle on the couch until Wong gets home, yeah?"

"Okay."

~~~

Stephen absolutely refused to admit that the steaming shower actually felt good. If it wasn't because Tony's hands gently massaging soap into his back and hair was the absolute best feeling in the world, then it was the way the steam helped unclog his sinuses. In all reality, it was likely both. It was always a show of how much Tony loved his boyfriends when he was willing to shower with them, pushing away his fear of the water. Stephen loved it. He also absolutely adored how gentle Tony was when he titled Stephen's head back and rinsed out his hair with a cup.

When they were finished, Tony helped Stephen into his favorite silk pajamas, toweled his hair dry, and led him to the couch. Stephen immediately burrowed into the blankets. Tony chuckled and sat down, letting out an 'oof' when Stephen flopped on top of him.

"Hey, bunny."

"I wanna watch Bluey." Stephen announced. Tony laughed.

"Alright, but I need you to finish your soup."

"Fine." Stephen muttered. He knew he was acting like a child, but he didn't care one bit. If eating soup was what permitted him to watch Bluey while he was sick, then so be it. He'd eat the damn soup.

He groaned when Tony had to stand up, but ate his soup without complaint. Tony sat back down and Stephen was quick to monopolize his lap, turning on the TV and letting his favorite show play.

Despite his best efforts, he fell asleep halfway through the second episode.

[hurtspideyparker]

Peter places an envelope on Tony's desk.

Tony looks up confused, "huh? What's that for?"

"It's for you," he points awkwardly at the plain blue envelope, held closed with a Darth Vader sticker.

"It's not my birthday kid." He snaps the protective face shield back down as he picks up his soldering iron, sparks flying as he gets back to work.

"I know that I, uh. It's from, it's for. It's yours. I gotta go, see you later Mr. Stark!" Peter hikes his backpack up tighter as he skips out of the lab.

Tony grunts in acknowledgement without looking up, eyes focused on the searing metal in front of him.

* * *

"Tony? I thought you were gonna have dinner with me after Peter left," Pepper saunters down into the workspace in a flattering pair of jeans and baby blue blouse.

"I was. I am. He left like five minutes ago," Tony waves at her without taking his eyes from the computer he's typing on.

"Happy drove him home two hours ago. Come, have a nice sit down meal with me." Pepper wraps her arms around his shoulders from behind, kissing the top of his head.

"I can have a sit down meal. I'm sitting right now, bring the carbonara down here and it'll be a proper date," Tony replies.

"Yeah, you me and your computer. How romantic. Tony, come upstairs- what's this?"

Tony glances up to see her holding a blue envelope.

"Uh, it's the kids."

Pepper flips it around, "it says To Mr. Stark From Peter on the back."

Tony just shrugs and goes back to typing on his computer.

The delicate glue of the sticker is undone under Pepper's sharp nails as she opens up the envelope and pulls something from inside.

"It's illegal to open someone else's mail y'know," Tony teases.

"Tony this- god you are such an asshole!" Pepper smacks Tony on the back of the head with the envelope.

"Ow! What the- what did I do now! I was just joking about the carbonara thing... mostly."

Tony finally meets Pepper's eyes of scorn. She tosses something in front of him with a huff.

"Tony, he even used a Darth Vader sticker. Do you know how adorably geeky and topical that is? You have got to start paying more attention to the living breathing people in front of you instead of your machines. Dinner is ready, please come upstairs."

Tony watches her leave as the clack of her heels fade away with every step. He's not sure what Darth Vader has to do with missing dinner, but he's quick to get up and start to follow.

He pauses before he makes it out the door, turning to finish the last line of code before he forgets the function. He pushes something off of his keyboard to type and press save.

Tony can't remember the last time he looked up from his work long enough to consume solid food. He's so ready to carb-load with some Italian food, turning away from the computer and blue envelope.

Tony's eyebrows furrow. Hm. Darth Vader sticker.

Tony turns back around and picks up the envelope from beside his keyboard.

This must be what the kid was yapping about earlier. Tony sticks his hand inside and finds a card, pulling it out.

"Father's Day it is," the front says in bold lettering with a picture of Yoda crudely hand-drawn with a sharpie and green highlighter. Tony flips it open, "celebrate you we must" is written in the middle of the page.

Below is a message in smaller writing; "Thank you for everything Mr. Stark, we wouldn't be here without you!" with a blob of sharpie that looks suspiciously like it's scribbled out a small heart, then signed "From Peter, Dum-E and U" each name written in their own unique handwriting.

"Friday, what day is it?"

"It is Sunday June 16th, also celebrated as Father's Day in countries such as the United States, Canada, and the UK."

Hm.

Tony stands there and stares at the card for longer than he'd ever admit before looking up at Dum-E.

"You help with this?" he asks, pointing at the card.

Dum-E chirps happily, twirling his claw around.

"Your hand writing's terrible."

* * *

Peter enters the lab slowly, an unsureness to him that's out of character.

It's Wednesday, his usual day for coming over to Tony's workshop. He hasn't heard anything from Tony since Sunday, not that he usually does. Still, the quietness has unnerved him. He's not sure what he was even expecting from his mentor; silence is probably the nicest response he could hope for after embarrassing himself like that.

"Hi Mr. Stark," he greets once he spots the older man sitting next to a complicated tangle of wires.

"Hey kid, can you go to the computer and run the command I have open for me?"

"Sure thing!" Peter says as he dumps his backpack onto the floor and jogs over.

The two get into an easy rhythm and Peter's practically forgotten why he was nervous in the first place when, "hey grab us some sodas will you," Mr. Stark asks him.

Peter walks up to the fridge in the corner of the room when he notices something new.

In the center of the silver metal lies a single piece of paper, stuck to the refrigerator with a plain magnet seemingly scrapped from some old hardware in the lab.

Tony has his Father's Day card displayed like some dorky parent whose kid got a half-decent report card, showcased on a fridge like a toddler's finger painted masterpiece.

It makes Peter so happy he can't wipe the stupid grin off his face the entire time he's grabbing sodas and delivering one to Tony.

The older hums a thanks without looking away from his project, but as Peter turns away Tony's own face contorts into a pleased smile all of his own.

The two share identical smiles all afternoon, hidden behind soda cans and computer screens.

[urdreamydoodles]

MARVEL COMICS CHARACTERS x FEM!READER

The Marvel Comics Characters babysit your dog, Mr. Pickles

Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Thor, Loki, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Bucky Barnes, Matthew Murdock, Frank Castle, Marc Spector, Johnny Storm, Reed Richards, Ben Grimm, Susan Storm, Felicia Hardy, Stephen Strange, Namor, Johnny Blaze, Eddie Brock / Venom, T'Challa, Elektra Natchios, Victor von Doom, Peter Quill & Nova

Mr. Pickles: 100 | Marvel’s Most Dangerous Characters: 0

Peter Parker & Mr. Pickles

- Peter Parker thought he had seen chaos. He had battled the Sinister Six, fought off symbiotes, and saved the city more times than he could count. But nothing—nothing—had prepared him for babysitting your tiny, fluffy, utterly reckless dog, Mr. Pickles.

- The first incident happened within minutes. Peter had barely set his backpack down when he turned around to find Mr. Pickles teetering on the edge of the kitchen counter, somehow having climbed up without opposable thumbs or logic. A split second later, Peter was diving forward, catching the little menace midair like he was saving a falling civilian from a burning building.

- Webbing became his only salvation. After Mr. Pickles managed to squeeze himself into the vents (how?!), Peter had no choice but to create an elaborate web barricade in the apartment. The place looked less like your home and more like a Spider-Man containment field.

- When he tried to work on some web fluid at your kitchen table, Mr. Pickles took it upon himself to bat at the vials like he was a cat, sending one flying straight into Peter’s hair. “Oh, come on, dude—do you have a vendetta against physics?!” he groaned, now stuck to the chair.

- By the time you returned, Peter was sitting on the couch, hair a mess, web fluid staining his fingers, Mr. Pickles curled up in his lap like an innocent angel. “Your dog is not real,” Peter muttered, voice hollow from exhaustion. “He is an agent of chaos.” But then you laughed, kissed his cheek, and suddenly, he decided maybe babysitting Mr. Pickles was worth it.

Tony Stark & Mr. Pickles

- Tony Stark was a genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist—and now, apparently, an unwilling dog sitter. He had babysat robots more predictable than your tiny, fluffy terror, Mr. Pickles, who seemed to have a personal grudge against his entire penthouse.

- Five minutes in, the dog had already hacked into JARVIS. “Sir,” JARVIS reported, “Mr. Pickles has managed to override security protocols and is currently sending an email to Pepper Potts.” Tony whipped around. “He what?” The email in question was just a string of random letters and a single attachment: a blurry photo of Mr. Pickles’ own tail.

- The next three hours were spent chasing the demon-dog through the penthouse. Mr. Pickles had chewed through a custom Italian leather shoe, knocked over an entire tray of expensive whiskey glasses, and somehow ended up inside the Iron Man gauntlet display.

- Thinking himself the superior intellect, Tony built a small tracking device for Mr. Pickles. That lasted exactly fifteen minutes before the dog removed it and buried it inside one of Tony’s prized sports cars.

- By the time you came home, Tony was slumped in his chair, his expensive suit now covered in dog fur, while Mr. Pickles pranced happily across the table like he had won the war. “Your dog needs an exorcist,” Tony grumbled. You just kissed his forehead and said, “But you love him, right?” Tony sighed. “Unfortunately… yeah.”

Steve Rogers & Mr. Pickles

- Steve Rogers had fought in wars, led the Avengers, and stared down threats that could destroy the world. But nothing prepared him for babysitting Mr. Pickles, a dog whose only purpose in life seemed to be challenging the laws of nature.

- It started with the shield. Steve had set it down for one minute—one single minute—and somehow, Mr. Pickles had lodged himself inside the strap loops, running across the apartment with it stuck to his back like a medieval knight.

- The escape attempts were relentless. Every time Steve turned away, Mr. Pickles was finding new ways to jailbreak from the apartment. He squeezed under doors, climbed onto furniture he had no business reaching, and at one point, managed to activate Steve’s emergency communicator by jumping onto the counter. Sam Wilson showed up at the door minutes later, breathless. “Did you just summon the Avengers?” Steve sighed. “No. The dog did.”

- Steve had fought entire battles with less stress. When he tried to cook dinner, Mr. Pickles stole an entire steak off the counter and stared Steve dead in the eye as he ate it. When he tried to read a book, the dog somehow ended up inside the couch cushions.

- When you walked in, Steve was on the floor, holding Mr. Pickles upside down like he had accepted defeat. “Your dog has the soul of a war general,” Steve muttered. You just smiled, kissing his cheek. “That’s why I trusted Captain America to babysit him.” Steve sighed, looking at the fluffy criminal in his arms. “Yeah. I guess I kind of like him.”

Thor & Mr. Pickles

- Thor, the God of Thunder, had faced frost giants, dark elves, and cosmic horrors. But none of them were as terrifyingly determined as your tiny, fluffy white dog, Mr. Pickles.

- The moment Thor sat down, Mr. Pickles leapt onto his lap, staring into his soul with his beady eyes. Thor grinned. “Ah! A warrior spirit!” He scratched behind Mr. Pickles’ ears, convinced that this small creature was surely an Asgardian beast in disguise.

- Things took a turn when Thor left Mjolnir on the ground. Mr. Pickles, in his infinite foolishness, tried to pick it up. When the hammer didn’t budge, he began barking at it, circling it like it was an enemy. Thor, amused beyond belief, sat back and watched the battle unfold.

- Mr. Pickles did not win. But he did not give up, either. Thor, impressed by his persistence, lifted Mjolnir just enough for Mr. Pickles to wiggle underneath and emerge victorious. “You are brave,” Thor declared. “And terribly, terribly dumb.”

- When you returned, Mr. Pickles was sitting atop Thor’s shoulder like he was king of Asgard. Thor beamed at you. “Your small beast is worthy! I shall take him to battle!” You simply sighed. “Thor, please don’t take my dog to battle.”

Loki & Mr. Pickles

- Loki, Prince of Asgard and God of Mischief, should have known better. He was the master of deception, the embodiment of chaos—but even he was not prepared for your small, dumb, fluffy menace, Mr. Pickles.

- The trouble started the moment you left. Loki, confident in his abilities, had settled in with a book. Within ten minutes, Mr. Pickles had stolen one of his enchanted daggers and was running laps around the room with it.

- Loki was not amused. He summoned illusions of himself to try and corner the beast, but Mr. Pickles—defying all reason— managed to sniff out the real Loki every time.

- Realizing he had met his match, Loki decided to strike a deal. “You may keep the dagger,” he told Mr. Pickles, “if you agree to cease your foolishness.” Mr. Pickles promptly ignored him and chewed on the dagger handle.

- By the time you returned, Loki was sitting on the couch, holding Mr. Pickles like a defeated king cradling his downfall. “Your dog,” Loki said, “is the single most infuriating creature I have ever encountered.” You just smiled. “But you like him, right?” Loki sighed, reluctantly scratching behind Mr. Pickles’ ears. “Against my better judgment… yes.”

Clint Barton & Mr. Pickles

- Clint Barton thought he had dealt with enough chaos in his life. He had fought aliens, battled crime syndicates, and survived on a diet of pizza and sarcasm. But babysitting your tiny, fluffy, perpetually confused dog, Mr. Pickles? That was an entirely new level of disaster.

- The first mistake Clint made was underestimating Mr. Pickles. “Yeah, yeah, I got this,” he had said as you left. Five minutes later, the dog had vanished. One second he was on the couch, the next, he was gone—like a ghost with bad decision-making skills.

- The next three hours turned into a full-blown tactical operation. Clint used every trick in the book—tracking skills, stealth maneuvers, even an actual infrared scope—only to find Mr. Pickles sitting inside Clint’s quiver, chewing happily on an arrowhead. “Dude, I need those,” Clint groaned, prying the slobbery mess from tiny jaws.

- He tried distracting Mr. Pickles with treats. That worked for exactly two minutes before the dog somehow managed to jump onto the kitchen counter, knock over a coffee mug, and hit the emergency call button on Clint’s burner phone. When Kate Bishop picked up, laughing, Clint groaned, “Shut up. I don’t want to talk about it.”

- By the time you came home, Clint was laying on the floor, defeated, as Mr. Pickles slept soundly on his chest. “Your dog is part ninja, part escape artist, and entirely evil,” Clint muttered. You smiled, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “But you love him, right?” Clint sighed, reluctantly scratching behind Mr. Pickles’ ears. “…Yeah, yeah. I love the dumb little menace.”

Natasha Romanoff & Mr. Pickles

- Natasha Romanoff was an elite assassin, a master of espionage, and completely unbothered by most things. Until, of course, she had to babysit Mr. Pickles.

- At first, she thought it would be easy. “He’s small,” she had told herself. “He’s fluffy. How much trouble can he be?” Two hours later, Natasha was standing on the coffee table, arms crossed, watching as Mr. Pickles circled her boots like a tiny, unhinged shark.

- She quickly realized Mr. Pickles had a taste for destruction. He tore apart a throw pillow, attempted to climb inside the dishwasher, and somehow chewed through her phone charger within ten minutes. “You’re worse than Clint,” she muttered, watching as he tried (and failed) to jump onto the windowsill.

- Despite the chaos, she found herself impressed by his persistence. When he got stuck in a blanket, he wiggled until he was free. When he knocked over his water bowl, he marched right through it like an unstoppable force. He reminded her, in some strange way, of herself—small but relentless, completely unaware of limits.

- When you returned, Mr. Pickles was curled up in Natasha’s lap, snoring softly. She glanced at you and smirked. “Your dog is dangerous,” she said. You laughed, leaning down to kiss her. “But you like him, right?” Natasha rolled her eyes but continued petting him. “…I tolerate him.” That was Natasha-speak for yes.

Bucky Barnes & Mr. Pickles

- Bucky Barnes had fought in wars, survived decades of brainwashing, and carried the weight of his past like an iron chain. Babysitting your tiny, fluffy disaster of a dog, Mr. Pickles, should have been easy. It was not.

- The first problem was the metal arm. Mr. Pickles was obsessed with it. He barked at it, licked it, and then tried to bite it—only to look extremely offended when his tiny teeth did nothing. “Buddy, I don’t know what you’re trying to accomplish here,” Bucky muttered, watching as the dog attempted (and failed) to wrestle his vibranium fingers.

- Mr. Pickles had no fear. He ran headfirst into furniture, nearly launched himself off the couch three separate times, and somehow got his head stuck inside a cereal box. Bucky spent a full five minutes just sighing and shaking his head before helping him out.

- By the end of the night, Bucky had fully accepted his fate. He sat on the couch, watching as Mr. Pickles zoomed around like a tiny white blur of chaos. “You’re exhausting,” Bucky told him. Mr. Pickles just wagged his tail, happy as ever.

- When you returned, Bucky was sitting on the floor, Mr. Pickles curled up in his lap, peacefully snoring. He glanced up at you, face unreadable. “We had a long discussion,” he said. “He’s still an idiot. But he’s our idiot.”

Matthew Murdock & Mr. Pickles

- Matt Murdock had dealt with enough surprises in life. He had lost his sight as a child, trained as a fighter, and spent his nights protecting Hell’s Kitchen. But nothing prepared him for the absolute chaos of babysitting Mr. Pickles.

- The first issue was his heightened senses. Mr. Pickles was small but somehow louder than an explosion. Every tiny footstep, every excited bark, every disastrous moment of chaos was amplified to near unbearable levels.

- Then came the smell. Matt had barely turned his back before he caught the unmistakable scent of a chewed-up shoe. He turned, unamused. “You did not just eat my dress shoes.” Mr. Pickles wagged his tail, entirely unremorseful.

- When the dog managed to escape into the hallway, Matt had no choice but to rely on his enhanced hearing to track him down. He followed the tiny, frantic paws to the stairwell—where Mr. Pickles had somehow managed to get stuck between two steps. “You are so lucky I like you,” Matt muttered, scooping him up.

- When you returned, Matt was sitting on the couch, Mr. Pickles resting on his lap. He turned his head toward you and smiled. “You didn’t tell me your dog was a criminal mastermind,” he teased. You laughed, wrapping your arms around him. “But you like him, right?” Matt sighed, stroking Mr. Pickles’ tiny head. “…Yeah. I do.”

Frank Castle & Mr. Pickles

- Frank Castle had seen hell. He had been to war, lost everything, and waged a bloody battle against crime. Babysitting your tiny, fluffy, completely clueless dog should not have been the hardest mission of his life.

- It started with the growling. Mr. Pickles hated Frank’s boots. Every time Frank took a step, the dog charged at them like a feral beast, tiny tail wagging in pure, misplaced aggression. “You got a death wish, pal?” Frank muttered. Mr. Pickles barked once.

- Frank was not a dog person. But somehow, Mr. Pickles was determined to change that. He followed Frank around like a tiny, white shadow, completely ignoring the fact that Frank was actively trying to ignore him.

- At some point, Frank gave up. He sat down, glancing at the tiny beast sitting next to him. “Alright, you win,” he muttered. Mr. Pickles immediately rolled onto his back, demanding belly rubs. Frank sighed, rubbing his face. “Unbelievable.”

- By the time you came home, Frank was sitting on the couch, a tiny, snoring Mr. Pickles curled up beside him. He looked at you, completely serious. “Your dog is a menace,” he said. Then, after a long pause, he sighed. “…But he’s a good kid.”

Marc Spector & Mr. Pickles

- Marc Spector has fought gods, mercenaries, and monsters lurking in the shadows. He has survived betrayals, bloodshed, and nights spent drowning in his own mind. But he was not prepared for Mr. Pickles.

- The dog hated structure, which was a problem, because Marc thrived on it. He tried to set a routine—food at seven, walk at eight, no chewing on anything remotely important. Within minutes, Mr. Pickles had knocked over a lamp, chewed on Marc’s combat boots, and somehow disappeared inside a kitchen cabinet.

- Jake Lockley found him first. When Marc blinked, his reflection smirked and said, “El perrito es un desastre.” (The little dog is a disaster.) When he switched to Steven, he just heard a horrified, “Marc, he’s got your cape!”

- By the end of the night, Mr. Pickles was asleep on Marc’s chest, his tiny form rising and falling with each breath. Marc sighed, staring at the ceiling. “I’ve fought Anubis. I’ve walked the path of the dead. And I was defeated… by you.”

- When you returned, you found Marc asleep on the couch, Mr. Pickles curled up against his ribs. You kissed his temple, whispering, “So, how’d it go?” Marc cracked one eye open. “I think we made a blood pact,” he muttered. “Your dog owns me now.”

Johnny Storm & Mr. Pickles

- Johnny Storm thought babysitting Mr. Pickles would be easy. He was a superhero, a celebrity, a professional fun-haver. Dogs loved him. He loved dogs. It should have been a perfect match.

- He was wrong.

- The first issue arose within ten minutes. Johnny had turned his back for two seconds when he heard a crash. He spun around to find Mr. Pickles standing victoriously on top of a knocked-over shelf, a chewed-up sock in his mouth. Johnny pointed at him. “Okay, that’s strike one.”

- Strike two came when the dog managed to climb onto Johnny’s bed, get tangled in the sheets, and somehow turn on the ceiling fan. Johnny barely caught him before he became airborne. “Buddy, you cannot just try to take flight,” he scolded, untangling him.

- By strike three, Johnny had accepted defeat. He laid on the floor, staring at the ceiling, as Mr. Pickles happily licked his face. “You win, little dude. I can’t keep up.”

- When you got home, Johnny was half-asleep, Mr. Pickles curled up in his hoodie. He groaned dramatically. “You didn’t tell me you had a tiny, fluffy supervillain.” You smirked, ruffling his hair. “But you love him, right?” Johnny sighed. “…Yeah, okay. He’s cool.”

Reed Richards & Mr. Pickles

- Reed Richards has solved equations that baffle the greatest minds of the century. He has rewritten physics, built machines that defy reality, and held the fabric of the multiverse in his hands. But nothing could have prepared him for Mr. Pickles.

- It started as an experiment. Reed, ever the scientist, wanted to study the peculiar behavior of your fluffy, oblivious dog. “It’s fascinating,” he mused, adjusting his glasses as Mr. Pickles attempted to bite his own tail and immediately fell over.

- That fascination quickly turned into mild horror when Mr. Pickles found his way into the lab. Within seconds, he had knocked over a beaker, chewed on some incredibly important notes, and—somehow—turned on the molecular destabilizer.

- Reed had to stretch halfway across the room to shut it off before anything catastrophic happened. He picked up Mr. Pickles, holding him at arm’s length. “You, sir, are an anomaly.” Mr. Pickles wagged his tail, completely unbothered.

- By the time you came home, Reed was sitting on the couch, reading quantum mechanics to Mr. Pickles, who was dozing on his lap. He adjusted his glasses. “He’s… quite the experiment.” You laughed, kissing his cheek. “But you love him, right?” Reed hesitated, then sighed. “…I suppose I do.”

Ben Grimm & Mr. Pickles

- Ben Grimm, the ever-lovin’ blue-eyed Thing, had faced cosmic horrors, supervillains, and existential crises. Babysitting your tiny, fluffy, dumb dog should’ve been easy. It was not.

- Within the first five minutes, Mr. Pickles had somehow gotten himself stuck under the couch. Ben sighed, reaching under with his massive hand and plucking the tiny dog up like a stubborn sock. “Kid, I’m tellin’ ya, you got no survival instincts.”

- Mr. Pickles, undeterred, immediately tried to chew on Ben’s massive rocky fingers. Ben raised a brow. “Oh, so you wanna scrap, huh?” The dog growled playfully, yapping at him with all the confidence of a creature who had never faced consequences.

- Eventually, Ben sat on the couch, Mr. Pickles curled up on his lap, snoring. He huffed, crossing his arms. “Ain’t no one better tell Reed about this. I got a reputation.”

- When you came back, you grinned at the sight of them together. “So, did you two bond?” Ben scoffed. “Bond? Nah. But… maybe he ain’t so bad. For a troublemaker.” Mr. Pickles snored louder. “…Yeah, yeah, I get it. You win, furball.”

Susan Storm & Mr. Pickles

- Susan Storm had dealt with far worse than a tiny, fluffy dog. Or so she thought.

- At first, everything was fine. Mr. Pickles wagged his tail, looking deceptively innocent. Susan smiled. “Oh, you’re adorable. This will be easy.” She would regret saying that.

- The second she turned around, Mr. Pickles vanished. Not literally, but it sure felt like it. Susan searched the Baxter Building, using her invisibility to sneak up on him. She found him in Reed’s lab, chewing on a very expensive-looking piece of tech.

- “Oh no, no, no—bad dog!” She swooped in, scooping him up before he could cause an explosion. Mr. Pickles licked her nose. She sighed. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

- By the time you got back, Susan was sitting on the couch, petting Mr. Pickles with one hand while rubbing her temple with the other. You grinned. “So, how did it go?” She gave you a tired smile. “…I love you, but next time, Johnny is babysitting.”

Felicia Hardy & Mr. Pickles

- Felicia Hardy had done a lot of reckless things in her life. She had stolen diamonds from locked vaults, toyed with superheroes, danced along the razor’s edge of disaster. But Mr. Pickles? He was a different kind of challenge.

- At first, she wasn’t impressed. “This is the little menace?” she had said, eyeing him. Then, five minutes later, she was chasing him around the apartment, cursing under her breath as he dodged every attempt to catch him.

- She realized, with a sort of begrudging admiration, that Mr. Pickles was fast. He slipped through her fingers, ducked under tables, and even managed to knock over a priceless antique vase she had definitely stolen.

- By the end of the night, Felicia had completely given in. She sat on the floor, watching as Mr. Pickles happily gnawed on a stolen hair tie. “You’re a little criminal,” she murmured, “and I kinda respect it.”

- When you came home, you found Felicia curled up on the couch, Mr. Pickles sleeping on her stomach. She cracked an eye open and smirked. “He’s growing on me.” You grinned. “So you love him?” Felicia stretched, running her fingers through his fur. “…Yeah. But don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation to maintain.”

Stephen Strange & Mr. Pickles

- Stephen Strange was one of the most powerful sorcerers in existence. He had traveled across dimensions, held the fate of the universe in his hands, bargained with cosmic entities. Babysitting Mr. Pickles should have been beneath him.

- And yet, here he was, standing in his Sanctum Sanctorum, staring at the tiny, fluffy creature wreaking absolute havoc. “No,” he said flatly as Mr. Pickles climbed onto the Cloak of Levitation, chewed on the enchanted embroidery, and then tried to ride it like a tiny, ill-advised chariot.

- Wong walked in, took one look at the chaos, and turned right back around. “Not my problem.”

- Stephen sighed, rubbing his temples. “Alright, you little menace. You’ve bested gods and mystics alike. What do you want?” Mr. Pickles barked once, wagging his tail. “Of course. Attention.”

- When you returned, Stephen was sitting in his armchair, the Cloak of Levitation draped around both him and Mr. Pickles. He didn’t even look up as you entered. “Your dog has no respect for the eldritch arts.” You bit back a laugh. “But you love him, right?” Stephen sighed dramatically. “…Against my better judgment, yes.”

Namor & Mr. Pickles

- Namor, King of Atlantis, First Mutant, Imperius Rex—babysitting a tiny, fluffy, absurdly dumb land creature was beneath him. He had ruled for centuries, waged wars, and stood against titans. And yet, you had looked at him with those eyes, and suddenly, here he was.

- Within minutes, Mr. Pickles had launched himself into a decorative Atlantean fountain, paddling with all the grace of a drowning pearl diver. Namor, unimpressed, crossed his arms. “You are not suited for the ocean, tiny beast.” Mr. Pickles barked, thrilled.

- The palace was not meant for creatures like him. In the span of an hour, he had chewed on an ancient scroll, attempted to befriend a very unamused sea serpent, and somehow found his way into the throne room, where he proudly sat upon Namor’s throne. The royal guards had never been more confused.

- By the time you returned, Namor stood with his arms crossed, his expression unreadable as Mr. Pickles wagged his tail at his feet. “Your creature is reckless, absurdly ill-equipped for survival, and entirely too confident for his own good.” You bit back a smile. “Sounds like someone else I know.”

- He sighed, running a hand down his face. “Against my better judgment, I will tolerate him.” You knelt, scooping Mr. Pickles into your arms. “Oh, so you love him?” Namor scoffed, turning on his heel. “Do not push your luck.” But the way Mr. Pickles trotted after him suggested otherwise.

Johnny Blaze & Mr. Pickles

- Johnny Blaze, the Ghost Rider, had made a deal with the Devil himself—but even Mephisto hadn’t prepared him for Mr. Pickles. He was expecting something manageable, maybe even chill. Instead, he got a tiny, fluffy tornado of chaos.

- Mr. Pickles immediately attempted to fight his motorcycle. Not sniff it. Not inspect it. Fight it. The little thing barked furiously at the flaming wheels, jumping up in a wild, futile attempt to bite them. Johnny had seen demons with more self-preservation.

- When Johnny tried to take a nap, Mr. Pickles climbed onto his chest, stared directly into his soul, and promptly sneezed on his face. Johnny wiped his face with a groan. “You’re lucky you’re cute, man.”

- At some point, the dog managed to run off with Johnny’s favorite leather jacket. By the time he caught him, Mr. Pickles was rolling around in it like it was his new personal throne. Johnny narrowed his eyes. “…Alright. You win. It’s yours now.”

- When you got home, you found Johnny on the couch, absently scratching Mr. Pickles’ ears. You grinned. “So, how’d it go?” Johnny sighed. “I think I just sold my soul again. To your dog.”

Eddie Brock / Venom & Mr. Pickles

- Eddie Brock had Venom. You had Mr. Pickles. The problem was that Venom did not understand why Mr. Pickles existed.

- “Is it prey?” Venom asked within the first five minutes. Eddie sighed, rubbing his temples. “No, buddy. It’s a pet.” Venom tilted its head. “We do not eat it?” Mr. Pickles wagged his tail obliviously. “No. We do not eat it.”

- Venom, unfortunately, did not like competition. Mr. Pickles demanded attention. Venom demanded you. The standoff began immediately. Eddie woke up to find Mr. Pickles asleep on his chest, while Venom loomed above him like a shadow, glowering.

- It only got worse when Mr. Pickles stole Eddie’s sandwich. Venom raged. “The creature has taken OUR food! We must retaliate!” Eddie sighed, watching as Mr. Pickles happily chewed on his stolen prize. “Yeah, buddy. I don’t think we’re winning this war.”

- When you returned, Eddie sat on the couch, Venom’s tendrils twitching in irritation, Mr. Pickles napping peacefully on his lap. You grinned. “Venom, did you make a friend?” Venom hissed. “He is an adversary.” Eddie rolled his eyes. “…Yeah. That means yes.”

T’Challa & Mr. Pickles

- T’Challa had fought in battles that shaped history, had led a nation, had outmaneuvered gods and kings. He had not, however, anticipated Mr. Pickles.

- Shuri was absolutely delighted. She took one look at the tiny, ridiculous dog and immediately declared, “He is my favorite guest.” T’Challa, arms crossed, simply said, “He is… something.”

- Mr. Pickles was determined to challenge every Wakandan security measure. Within an hour, he had gotten past two Dora Milaje, slipped into the royal chambers, and was found happily wagging his tail atop the Vibranium throne.

- Okoye was not amused. Shuri was entertained. T’Challa sighed deeply, rubbing his temples. “This dog fears nothing.” Shuri smirked. “Much like someone else I know.”

- By the time you returned, Mr. Pickles was curled up beside T’Challa, who was absentmindedly scratching behind his ears. You crossed your arms. “So, do you love him?” T’Challa did not look up. “…I tolerate him.” Mr. Pickles licked his hand. “…Perhaps a little more than that.”

Elektra Natchios & Mr. Pickles

- Elektra had survived assassins, taken down empires, and danced in the dark with death itself. She was elegant, precise, a living weapon. Mr. Pickles, on the other hand, was a small, fluffy ball of pure idiocy.

- He immediately tried to steal one of her sais. She watched, unimpressed, as he grabbed the handle in his tiny jaws and attempted to run away. He tripped, rolled over, and barked at the ceiling in defiance. She had seen warriors with less determination.

- Despite her initial reluctance, she found herself watching him, observing. There was something admirable about his foolish bravery. His absolute lack of fear. The way he took up space despite his size.

- Eventually, he curled up next to her, snuggling against her side. Elektra, without thinking, ran her fingers through his soft fur. She had never had a pet before. She had never let herself want one. But this? This, she could allow.

- When you returned, Elektra simply looked at you, one hand still on Mr. Pickles’ back. You smirked. “So… you love him?” She arched a brow. “Love is a strong word.” Mr. Pickles snored softly against her. “…But perhaps, just this once, I can allow it.”

Victor von Doom & Mr. Pickles

- Doom did not babysit. Doom did not serve. Doom did not tolerate fools. And yet, here he was.

- He stared at Mr. Pickles. Mr. Pickles stared back, tail wagging. Doom narrowed his eyes. “You are beneath me.” Mr. Pickles barked happily. Doom scowled. “Cease.” Mr. Pickles barked again.

- The dog, completely oblivious to the concept of fear, followed Doom around Latveria. At some point, he clambered onto Doom’s throne, tail thumping against the armrest. The royal guards exchanged nervous glances. Doom exhaled slowly. “I despise this.”

- However, when a diplomat dared to insult Doom, Mr. Pickles yapped aggressively, standing protectively in front of him. Doom observed this. “Hmph. At least you recognize greatness.”

- When you returned, Doom crossed his arms. “Your creature is an idiot.” You smiled. “But did you like him?” Doom huffed. “Doom tolerates him. Nothing more.” Mr. Pickles jumped into his lap. Doom sighed. “…Fine. Perhaps a little more.”

Peter Quill & Mr. Pickles

- Peter Quill thought babysitting a tiny dog would be easier than babysitting Rocket. He was wrong.

- “Okay, little dude, let’s make this easy.” Mr. Pickles promptly stole one of his mixtapes. “HEY! That’s vintage!” A chase ensued across the Milano, Star-Lord versus a fluffy menace.

- Eventually, Peter gave up. Mr. Pickles sat triumphantly atop his pillow, the mixtape still in his mouth. Peter sighed. “You’re lucky I got a soft spot for troublemakers.”

- The dog, realizing he had won, curled up beside him. Peter smirked. “Alright, fine. You can stay.” Mr. Pickles snuggled closer. Peter grumbled. “…Don’t tell Rocket about this.”

- When you got back, you found them both asleep on the couch. You whispered, “So, how did it go?” Without opening his eyes, Peter muttered, “I think I just lost my ship to your dog.”

Nova & Mr. Pickles

- Richard Rider had fought space tyrants, cosmic gods, and existential threats. Mr. Pickles, somehow, was worse.

- Mr. Pickles had no concept of galactic law. Within minutes, he had tried to steal a Nova Corps helmet, chewed on an important report, and attempted to fight a very confused alien.

- Richard sighed, picking up the tiny menace. “Okay, dude. I don’t have time for intergalactic incidents. Work with me here.” Mr. Pickles licked his face. Richard groaned. “…I give up.”

- By the end of the day, the entire Nova Corps had begrudgingly accepted Mr. Pickles. Someone even made him a tiny Nova helmet. Richard just sighed. “I am never living this down.”

- When you returned, Richard handed Mr. Pickles to you. “Your dog is now an honorary Nova Corps member.” You laughed. “So, did you love him?” Richard huffed. “…He’s alright.” Mr. Pickles barked happily. “…Fine. Maybe a little more than alright.”