Commentary: Three smaller scribblets here, together totaling 1,000 words, each written in no more than ten minutes. Hoo! For timelines, respectively: post-film, pre-film, post-film.
Many thanks to MegaPotterBender for the word banana, and to nineteennintytwo for awkward. I had a lot of fun with both—I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I enjoyed writing them!
Want to see a word written? Let me know (PM/IM me!) and if I use yours, I will surely credit you and thank you kindly too.
Dragons Lover1:Thank you for reading my work closely enough to notice my colon usage—but personally, I don't so much think they're wrong as they're a bit unorthodox. I could use a comma here, true, or a semicolon there (never a hyphen, NEVER I SAY), but why bother when a colon is just so much more… exotic? And pineapple-flavored? (Oh God a hyphen I lied—)
Secondly, I think regularly starting sentences with 'he' and 'she' and the like could be a bad thing if done such that the story comes across as stilted—that's certainly not my aim here. Have I done that? Disrupted the flow? Gypped the jive? If so, please note me with some particular examples and I'll work on it! =)
Warning: Innuendo! Nothing too racy, but if you're not looking to imagine anything frisky, skip the third drabble. …and, uhm. The first one too.
COBALT
Word FOUR: Banana
He slips into her apartment without fanfare, but with the key she had made for him.
It is dark because one in the morning has come and gone already, and also because the shutters of the blinds over the kitchen window are drawn shut, blocking out the city's sure glow. Megamind wearily steps past the table, around the breakfast bar; he deposits his narrow body on the couch. His head falls back against the cushions and he sighs, rubbing his wrist over his eyes.
"Long day?" comes the whisper.
Scissory elbows stabbing the air, Megamind jerks. He rolls his gaze sideways and there is his girlfriend, standing at the hall's entrance in her nightshirt and nothing else, oh my. He squints at her pear-shaped silhouette, entranced, and manages, "Long, uh. Yes. Very, very… long."
Which her nightshirt is not. Megamind finds himself quite thankful for such small—err, short—blessings.
Drifting across the room's separation, Roxanne reaches out a shaded hand and traces it along the rounded arc of his skull. Her small palm is warm and supple and slow; her fingertips drift down the divot at the nape of his neck. A grouchy pluck at the hem of his shirt is administered, idle. Her other hand feathers along his cheekbone, cups it.
"Sorry to hear that," Roxanne sighs, but she doesn't sound sorry at all. Because it is dark, he can't tell if she's smiling or if she isn't: not until her mouth touches his ear, anyway. A warm crescent against his flesh, her grin quivers as she nibbles the pliant lobe. The city's protector shivers, gripping hard and helplessly at the couch.
Her breath trickles down his throat and she asks, "Mind if your day gets a bit… longer?"
"Well," he says, struggling for composure, "I might spare you a little time. An infinitesimal… say, fraction."
A quiver in the darkness: movement. She steps around the couch, loops her arms about his neck, and ladles herself into his lap. He braces her, balances her, hands flared at her hips. She laughs softly, sweetly against his jutting collar, "Ah-hah. Is that a banana in your pocket, Megamind, or are you just happy to see me?"
This puzzles the former villain greatly. "This suit has no pockets," he reminds her, "and I find it quite disturbing that you pick now of all times to discuss fabrics and fruits in such synchronized synonymy—"
"Happy to see me," Roxanne answers her own question, and leans up in the sharp shadow of his chin to kiss him.
Word FIVE: Human
A wet, hitching racket filled the lair. Said lair sported excellent acoustics and the noise bounced along the technology-speckled walls, a vile scrape, a treacherous grind. Minion winced.
Pausing in his monologue, Megamind looked up at Roxanne Ritchi and frowned. When she had finished coughing, he informed the reporter, brows drawn together in a tight black line, "You sound terrible."
Was that a twinge of concern on his narrow face, in his thespian's voice? Glaring blearily at the supervillain, Roxanne speculated. "I'm sick," she replied, and clarified, "the flu. Everyone at the station has it." She sniffed—or tried to sniff. Clogged nostrils granted her no mercy. Her joints throbbed; her sinuses pulsed. Morose, she retched out another cough, muttered miserably, and sank forward against the hostage chair's leather bonds. Her head bobbled, drooped. The spindly drill of a nearby doomsday device almost made intimate friends with her eyebrow.
Footsteps, soft clicks. Shining boots wandered into her vision, then a hand, and Megamind touched her chin with gloved fingertips and pushed it aloft. He studied her face, expression inscrutable. The suede slide of his thumb fell along her cheekbone, tickling.
Roxanne wrinkled her nose, shivered, and sneezed into Megamind's face.
He considered this for a few seconds, stone still. Drawing back, he provided Roxanne a tissue swept from seemingly nowhere, used another to wipe his face, and snapped his fingers dismissively. "Take her home, Minion," he sighed.
"What?" said the fish.
"What?" said Roxanne. It sounded more like whudd.
"Take her home," Megamind repeated. The small chair at the edge of the room squeaked as he took it. Opening his arms for a brainbot, the villain tapped his wrist against his creation's sleek pseudo-skull and purred, "In her current state, Miss Ritchi is clearly unable to fully appreciate the great extent of our—our evilness. We must retreat and strike again"—he made a stabbing motion with two fingers, miming a cobra's assault—"when the time is right."
"Malevolence in moderation," realized the subordinate. He fluttered in his bowl, beaming. "Excellent, sir!"
"And quite poetic on your part, Minion!" Megamind praised his friend. His palm flattened over the brainbot's casing. "Now," he insisted, "Miss Ritchi—home. If you would?"
"Right away, sir."
A moment later the bonds loosened, slipped sidelong. Vaulted over Minion's faux-furred shoulder, Roxanne surveyed the lair's resident blue menace. He lifted his eyebrows at her—wiggled them.
"Softie," she accused.
"Never," he snarled.
But his lime eyes, soft indeed, held hers until the blindfold bag plunged her world into filmy, potato-smelling darkness.
Word SIX: Awkward
His mouth twitched. He bit his tongue—ran his fingers down the narrow strip so silken. They slipped. Roxanne giggled. Giggled! Her shoulderblades jumped with each small sound.
"Oh," Megamind hissed, stilling his hand, "right, yes, you're mocking me, you—you she-demon. That's so helpful."
"Try again," she encouraged him. The darkness around them shivered: she was laughing still, unable to help it. Covering her mouth with her fingers, she hid her mirth in her lifeline and leaned closer to him.
Megamind obediently made a second attempt. Victory evaded him despite his best efforts. Frustrated, he threw up his hands and accused, "Foul contraption!"
Roxanne smirked.
"Abominable—"
She reached around, unsnapped her bra, and rolled her shoulders. The harness fell between them in a splay of satin.
Megamind's breath caught. "—deceptively, uh, alluring apparatus of doom—"
Capturing his hands too, she guided them elsewhere.
Megamind fell quiet.