“When you’re 5 ft. 5 in., have a round Jewish face and wear glasses and refuse to wear contacts, you’re going to get offered certain parts. People thought of me as the nerdy guy, even in non-nerdy parts like ‘Parenthood.’ I didn’t feel the need to change anything I was doing - I embraced it.” - Rick Moranis
Strange Magic/Megamind FanFic – “Holiday Hues, Butterflies and Blue”
My Strange Magic Secret Santa Gift for the wonderful @whimsicalitywheee, who requested shenanigans between the cast of Strange Magic and Megamind! I hope you have a wonderful Christmas and that you get as much joy reading this as it gave me to
My very first crossover fanfic, and I can’t think of two finer fandoms for it =)
A MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL, AND TO ALL A GOOD NIGHT!
“You know, he has something like
Marianne arched an eyebrow at the
woman sitting across from her, intrigued by both the statement and by how those
pretty blue eyes of hers flashed with keen intelligence and warm curiosity. An adventurer’s spirit. They were only
halfway through their cups of tea, and she already liked her immensely. “Oh,
You heard the door open, signaling Doctor Strange finally returning home. You were getting a little frustrated with him and how little time was spent at home and with you. So, it was a little petty, but you were going to let him know how you felt.
“Hey, honey,” Strange greeted as he walked into the study where you were reading one of his books. He walked over to give you a kiss on the lips, but you turned your head. He paused a moment, frowning, before kissing your cheek. “How was your day?”
You ignored him and continued to read your book.
“Did I do something wrong?” Strange asked, frowning again.
You gave him a pointed look, before returning to your book.
Strange knelt down by the chair, resting his elbows on one of the arms. “Would you feel better if I made you your favorite dish?”
You looked at him again, raising your eyebrow. Did he really think he could bribe his way out of your anger?
“I take it that’s a no. I’ll still make your favorite anyways. I can’t fix whatever you’re mad at if you don’t tell me,” Strange told you.
“Remember two days ago?” you asked, not wanting to repeat the conversation.
“Yes, what about-” Strange started, before realization hit. “Oh, today was supposed to be date day, I’m sorry. There was an emergency.”
“I understand you’re the best master of the mystic arts,” you said, putting your hand on Strange’s cheek. “But you’re not the only one capable of dealing with magic foes. Let Brother Voodoo handle it, or Wanda Maximoff, or Pete Wisdom. They can handle it every once in a while so we can have time for dates.”
Strange nodded. “We can have a nice dinner tonight, followed by a movie here, then tomorrow I’m all yours. How does that sound?” he asked.
You nodded. “Okay, that’s acceptable,” you said, leaning over to kiss Strange’s head.
But Sometimes a Girls Gotta Do What a Girls Gotta Do
I want to see this happen.
Bog works a few all nighters. He gets grumpy, angry, annoyed, frustrated, until Marianne is brought in by Griselda to stand by his side during the entire process. Suddenly his time with the council isn’t as bad when she’s there to run a hand down his spine, intertwine their fingers, calmly remind him of his temper every now and then while passing him sweet breads and dried meats telling him “sweetheart, you’ve got to eat, alright?”
And he feels just so taken care of and so loved and he knows that everything is going to be alright.
And after it’s all over she drags him to bed. “You’re going to sleep,” she’d say, her fingers playing a melodic tune down the scales of his head, the buds of his wings, cradling his neck and jaw, placing a few chaste kisses against his cheek. “C’mon. Brush your teeth, staff against the wall, covers up. This isn’t an option.”
“But we could-” he’d yawn, breaking his sentence before wiping at dreary eyes, “talk. Ye hav-haven’ been here in a while an’ I’ve been so busy-”
“We’ll have all of tomorrow.” Marianne would climb over the covers, adjusting them to his shoulders. “Go to sleep.”
“I love you too.”
And he would fall asleep then, loved and cared for and ridiculously happy. Lost in a world of complete content. So far lost that he wouldn’t hear her whisper final, affectionate words against his temple.
“I love you so much, Bog,” she’d say, reaching into her overnight bag, “I love you more than the moon. More than this life. More than anything.” And then she’d pull out a bottle of ink. “But if you think that doesn’t mean I’m going to draw a mustache on your dorky face then you’re very wrong.”