did he say she's cat twice or she's a cat twice or both once

Marichat May Day 6 - Game Night

When Chat Noir gets a little too excited for a new game for his and Marinette’s game night he forgets to knock before entering Marinette’s room. Of course the day he forgets is the day Alya is there.

Rated G || 1,535 Words

Cross posted on Ao3 || FF

No Instructions for This

After their game night last week, Marinette had told Chat about a new board game that she was trying to get her hands on for this week. He knew there was no way she would be able to get it by tonight since it had been sold out for weeks. Luckily, he typically gets what he wants when he throws the Agreste name around. He tried not to do it too often because it made him feel kind of slimy but if it was for his princess he would gladly do it. That was how he ended up with said game tucked under his arm while bounding to Marinette’s house.

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xxtorchxx  asked:

Not sure if you're still taking prompts... #8 Supercat

She finds out about it on a Thursday. 

Her morning goes well enough–hot shower, hot coffee, comfortable indifference from Snapper rather than a blistering string of insults. Kara plops into the chair in her small office and starts up her computer. She checks her email first, sends a birthday message to Kathy in financial, and then beings to click through the headlines of all the major news and gossip columns online.

She chokes on a sip of coffee, sputtering as it burns and sticks in her throat, when an image of her former boss flashes across her screen. Wrapped in a blue Versace rib-knit belted dress, and the arms of a man Kara doesn’t recognize but whose suit, alone, tells her is loaded. “Cat Nabs a New Toy: The Dish on Cat Grant’s New Beau” bellows bluntly across the top of the page in bolded, capital letters, and Kara feels her stomach clench.

A shaky puff of a laugh pushes through her lips as she presses her glasses up on her nose. Her hand moves without command, without thought, and she suddenly finds herself snapping a shot of the computer screen. The whooshing sound of the message being sent has Kara’s tapping out a follow-up message.

Another ridiculous gossip line. I thought you might get a laugh out of this.

Chewing her lip, Kara waits. Stares at the screen. She isn’t sure why, but her stomach won’t settle. Maybe it was the coffee. Or the four sticky buns she had at Noonan’s before heading up to her office. She smiles, though, when three small dots, indicating that Cat is typing, pop up on her screen.

Cats and their playthings. How original. If I weren’t emoji-averse, I might employ that annoyed face you seem to like so much when ranting about Snapper.

With a soft laugh, Kara quickly types out her reply.

I’ll admit the photoshop had me for a second. It’s definitely one of the better manipulations I’ve seen on this site.

The smile still stretching Kara’s lips falls the second Cat’s reply comes through.

Even that praise is unwarranted, Kara. The shot isn’t photoshopped, though I would have appreciated a better angle on the dress. It is impossible to appreciate the mastery of the stitching from this angle.

Brow furrow and lips dipping down into a frown, Kara stares at the message. Reads the words over and over again. The shot isn’t photoshopped. 

No. Surely Cat isn’t … No. She would have said something, wouldn’t she? Would she? Kara stills, stalls. She and Cat are friends, aren’t they? Close, even, Kara would say. But they never spoke of Cat’s relationships. It wasn’t like Cat Grant, Queen of All Media called plain old bottom-of-the-totem-pole, junior-reporter Kara Danvers in the middle of the night to dish about her sex life. But still … Kara feels like she should have known before some gossip columnist. Before half the world clicking around on the internet.

Kara shudders at the thought of Cat with this man, his stubble rubbing against her cheek, against her chest, against her th–“Stop,” Kara snaps at herself, shaking her head.

Her stomach stirs again, uncomfortable, as she wipes her suddenly sweaty hands on her khakis and then types out another message.

Oh, so, you’re … you and this man are seeing one another then?


Kara’s throat suddenly feels tight and dry, and despite how much she wants to, she can’t bring herself to inquire further. So, instead, she lets it hang. Lets it rest with Cat’s easy confirmation.

Lets it rest despite the fact that she feels anything but settled.

The pit in her stomach has a name.

Thomas Lively. CEO of WAL Technologies, a software company built by his father and passed on to him. 

Thomas Lively has gray hair and graying stubble that looks too scratchy to be sexy. He has brown eyes and a big nose and one dimple in his left cheek. A square jaw and white teeth, and was listed as one of New York’s most eligible bachelors in three different publications.

Thomas Lively has four ex-wives and three kids, one with each of the first three wives. Two sons and a daughter. 21, 18, and 9.

Thomas Lively has a brownstone in Manhattan, a penthouse in Los Angeles, a houseboat in Newport Beach, and a cabin somewhere in Nobody Cares, Montana.

Thomas Lively has his big, rich hands on Cat’s waist and Cat’s lower back and Cat’s upper back and Cat’s cheek and Cat’s–


Blinking, Kara looks up from her phone. Seven open search tabs on Thomas Lively and two open image searches on he and Cat together; a relationship the gossip columns have nauseatingly taken to calling ‘ThomCat’. Kara has spent the last fourteen days consistently wanting to vomit.

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lushatrocity  asked:

Side note - this could be perfect for your celebration! ‘we’re rival contestants on a reality show and the producers told us to pretend to be warring exes for ratings so now we keep inventing crazier things the other did while we were dating’ au



(featuring Bellamy and Clarke as The Voice contestants matched up for a battle)

Bellamy’s pretty sure that falling out of love isn’t supposed to be this fun.

But then again, he’s never fallen out of love with Clarke Griffin before.

“So,” he says. “How does this go?”

Her icy gaze snaps to his. “What?”

He bristles at her sharp tone. “This,” he repeats curtly, gesturing between them. “What are we gonna say? What’s our story?”

She stares at him. He can’t quite tell if she’s incredulous or offended.

Probably both.

“We have no story,” she says shortly, already turning away. “Just follow my lead in front of the cameras. And don’t fuck up,” she adds as she strides off.

Bellamy sighs, resigned.

He’s always found it supremely funny whenever contestants on reality shows say stuff like “I’m not here to make friends, I’m here to win.

But from the minute he’d laid eyes on her, he’d instantly known that Clarke Griffin is most definitely not here to make friends. She’s intense, and she’s focused. Above all, she’s here for one thing only — and that’s to win.  

Truth be told, he can’t say he’s surprised that they’re getting this directive from the producers. Since the competition’s start, he and Clarke have been butting heads nonstop, on camera and off.

It makes sense for the show to want to capitalise on their tension for some dramatic exchanges.

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Jigsaw - a Whouffaldi Fic - Part 1

Author’s Note: This is just my own flavor of wishful thinking, pieced together with a few headcanons and ideas.

Summary: Because some pieces can’t be kept apart forever.  Post- Hell Bent reunion fic.  Part one of possibly three.

Rating: T

Warnings: Banter (banterbanter).  Possible feels.  The phrase “trans-dimensional booty call”.

Word Count: 1700

AO3 Link: Here

There’s a vacant lot somewhere in London.  A few meters of crumbled concrete and scrubby weeds stretched between a closed-down chip shop and a newsagent’s.  Only today, it’s not so vacant.  Today it’s home to an American-themed diner, because it’s where Clara Oswald has decided to park her TARDIS.  It takes up a good deal more space than a police box when it lands, but she’s become fairly adept at parking it after so long.  She doesn’t even scratch the paint.

She’s actually quite pleased with herself, at least until she opens the door to find six stray cats hissing at her from the linoleum floor.  The esteemed Lady Me is of absolutely no help, she just cackles, propping the front door open and watching with no shortage of amusement as Clara tries to usher them all out with a push broom.  The last one is the hardest, an ill-tempered ball of shaggy blueish-grey fuzz that yowls and spits and swipes at the broom anytime she gets too close with it.  Twice it tears past her to hide under one of the booths, swiping at her legs and gouging shallow cuts.  Nothing severe, easily cleaned, but they sting like hell and make her wish she’d not changed into the blue waitress uniform so soon.

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