titsay
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
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will byers stan first human second
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
One Nice Bug Per Day
TVSTRANGERTHINGS
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Xuebing Du
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Stranger Things
❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
Jules of Nature
Discoholic 🪩
Sade Olutola
if i look back, i am lost
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
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ellievsbear
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@cassielectric
Jessica seized the woman for a moment but then hummed in agreement. ❝Well, yeah. As if big people didn’t get drunk at all.❞ She shrugged, drinking more of her spiked beverage. ❝Do you get drunk easily? Is that why you came with your words of wisdom?❞
“Idiots.” Cassie affirms idly, before giving a slow shake of her head. “Not easily- just often.”
indecision | strange&cassie | prompt
Deep down, Stephen had feared the press conference would not end well. He admired and appreciated Steve Rogers’ wish to speak to the public about the importance of heroes and the good they could do, of course. If anyone could present the case well, it was Captain America. But the environment and attitude of the public had been so hostile of late that an uneventful press conference had seemed unlikely. Still the eruption of violence was much worse than even Stephen had thought, but now there was nothing to do but try and protect the civilians who had been caught in the crossfire.
At first Stephen attempted to take out some of the HYDRA shooters. “By the power of the Vishanti, I call upon the Flames of the Faltine!” he cried, releasing a stream of magical blasts up towards the snipers. But there was too much confusion around for him to truly focus his aim, and sadly there were too many people who could be injured, either by the HYDRA agents or even he himself if anyone accidentally got in the way. No, he needed to help the civilians, and hopefully the others could deal with the HYDRA shooters.
Just as he started moving to help, however, Stephen noticed a woman staring at him, and her look did not convey fear or helplessness. It was a look of distrust and anger. He did not know who she was or what purpose she had, but he had no time to debate. Quickly he moved towards the group of civilians.
“Back! All of you, stay back!” Moving in front of them, Stephen conjured a magical shield, blocking the hail of bullets from as many people as he could. As he did, he looked back at the woman watching him, hoping to convey through his expression that he meant no harm. Still, deciding to make himself even more clear, he called to her, “Please, if you can help, I would appreciate it!”
@cassielectric
He needed help, that much was obvious, but she still couldn’t find it within herself to aid him. Images from that fateful day plagued her vision: the Leviathan crashing through the ceiling, her legs pinned under the dead creature, the trail of blood leaking from the corner of James’ mouth as the light faded from his eyes. Was this the PTSD the therapist had told her about? She didn’t know.
Regardless of what it was, some part of her woke up, began to speak after years of remaining in silence. It reminded her that James would have wanted her to help. He would have rather seen her work with the people that had killed him as opposed to letting innocent people die. He would have wanted her to be good.
With an exhausted, exasperated groan, Cassie shook her head and turned her palms outward, aiming them for the building that the bullets were coming from. Keeping the electricity under control was difficult enough: aiming it and limiting how much was exerted would take all of her concentration and energy, and then some, but she had to try. Focusing hard on not using too much, she sent two sparking, white-hot streams of electricity, one with each hand, at the windows the bullets were still coming from.
They were too high at first, hitting the windows on the floor above and shattering them. “Shit,” she muttered, sweat beading on her forehead due to the exertion. She aimed lower, giving them a bit more power, praying that she’d hit her target.
❅ ❦ ☹
❅- Favorite time of the year?
Winter, by far.
❦- What is your muse’s favorite fruit?
Cassie likes strawberries.
☹- Something that makes your muse sad/upset
James.
☁- What kind of weather does your muse consider the best one ツ- Can your muse speak any other language other than their main one? ∞- Does your muse believes in afterlife?
☁- What kind of weather does your muse consider the best one
Cassie loves it when it’s cloudy, and not too hot but not too cold, either.
ツ- Can your muse speak any other language other than their main one?
Answered here!
∞- Does your muse believes in afterlife?
Answered here!
∞- Does your muse believes in afterlife?
∞- Does your muse believes in afterlife?
She’s not sure she believes in one, but she still hopes that one exists.
✆, ⌨, ⋆
✆- What your muse’s phone gallery is filled with?
Pictures of her and James, mostly. She’s also got several from surveillance for some of her stories for the Bugle that she keeps meaning to delete, but never actually gets around to.
⌨- How often does your muse use the computer?
Whether it’s research, writing, or simply wandering the internet, she’s on her laptop All The Time.
⋆- Your muse’s future dream and why
She wants to get a handle on her abilities again; she’s sick of feeling like a bomb about to go off. Long-term, though, she’s honestly not sure.
ツ
ツ- Can your muse speak any other language other than their main one?
Along with English, Cassie can sort of speak German. She hasn’t had to use it in a while, though, so the knowledge has faded slightly.
“Would you believe magic?” He leaned close, as if about to spill all the secrets. “It loses its charm if I tell you, I’m afraid. Gotta keep the mystery alive.” Leaning back, he grinned and set about cleaning up his small station.
She leans in with him, looking as though she might actually nod before wrinkling her nose and shaking her head. “No.” Leaning back in her chair for a moment, she has a brief mental debate with herself over whether or not to pursue the subject. Yes eventually wins out, thanks to her journalistic instincts telling her there’s something here, so she tries one more time. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours,” she offers before raising her hand palm-up, letting electricity spark and crackle between her fingers. It’s a last-ditch effort, and probably a horrible idea, but she’s had such a difficult time finding anyone like her that she’s gotten desperate.
ᶤ ᵈᵒᶰ'ᵗ ᵇᵉˡᶤᵉᵛᵉ ᶤᶰ ʰᵉᵃᵛᵉᶰ ᵇᵉᶜᵃᵘˢᵉ ᶤᵗ ʷᵃˢ ᵇᵘʳᶤᵉᵈ ʷᶤᵗʰ ʸᵒᵘ.
indecision | strange&cassie | prompt
The screams, the chaos, the rampant crowd: everything about the press conference gone wrong was forcing Cassie’s memories of the battle of New York back to the surface. Every scream of pain and shove from the other civilians was a jarring reminder of how raw the loss of James still was. She recognizes a few of the Avengers adding to the chaos by firing back at the sniper, and clenches her fists so tightly that her nails draw blood in anger.
As if that wasn’t enough, Cassie found that maintaining control over the electricity that had started surging through her the moment the first shot had gone off was becoming more and more difficult with each passing moment. Moral, journalistic and vigilante-istic reasons for staying be damned- she’s beginning to worry that the sniper on the roof a few buildings over won’t be their only problem if she doesn’t get out of there soon enough.
Of course, as soon as she makes the decision to find the quickest way to bolt, she stumbles upon a man who, if she didn’t know any better, she’d say was doing magic. She’s torn between freezing where she’s stood to watch and running, until she realizes which side he’s on- the Avengers. The rage from only a few moments ago comes bubbling back up, just in time for a group of civilians to land themselves smack in the middle of the line of fire. The new development leaves her torn ( does she help the people that destroyed her life, or risk someone else’s life being destroyed? ), and she looks to the magic man to see what he’ll do.
[ @master-of-mystic-arts ]
Headcanon Meme
❤- What does your muse look forwards on their soulmate?
❥- Can often/easily can your muse get heartbroken?
❣- What calms your muse down?
ღ- Sexuality?
⌚- Does your muse worry about time?
❅- Favorite time of the year?
✿- Does your muse like the nature in general?
✞- Does your muse have any kinds of religion?
✍- Can your muse write? How well/How bad?
✎- Can your muse draw? How well/How Bad?
☁- What kind of weather does your muse consider the best one
ツ- Can your muse speak any other language other than their main one?
∞- Does your muse believes in afterlife?
✺- Something your muse finds pretty
✆- What your muse’s phone gallery is filled with?
❦- What is your muse’s favorite fruit?
❧- What is your muse’s favorite kind of food?
‽- Something your muse has problem in understanding
☺- Something that makes your muse happy
☹- Something that makes your muse sad/upset
✉- How often does your muse text?
⌨- How often does your muse use the computer?
♫- What is your muse’s taste in music?
♯- Something that gets your muse angry
⋆- Your muse’s future dream and why
☮- How much your muse worries about appearance?
Jessica looked up at the other woman and just stares for a moment before drinking more gulps of her now spiked beverage. “It’s really difficult for me to get a headache from drinking this. Or any alcohol for that matter. People think that because I’m small I can’t hold my liquor, but I know my limit. I’ve been there, and let me tell you: it takes a while to get there.”
Cassie shrugs and shakes her head in a sort of ‘what can you do’ gesture as the woman chugs more of the beverage. She smiles at the explanation, sympathizing with the sentiment. “People always underestimate the short guy- short girl in this case, I guess.”
“Story of my life, honestly. Hold on–” In a few moments there’s a wet-wipe produced from her tattered messenger bag. “Knock y’self out.”
“Oh-” She accepts the wipe with a grateful smile, swiping under her eyes to rid the skin of the old makeup. “I appreciate the head’s up- and the wipe.”
A voice in the back of her head kept telling her that this was a bad idea, that not only she’d end up with a virus infiltrated in her tablet, but most probably scarred for life more than she already was. Poppy had seen some videos on the dangers and content that formed the deep web — from hitman-hiring, and drug dealing marketplaces to satanic games, pedophilia and specially, human experimentation. Part of her didn’t want to do this, but after she and Wanda found that damn remote, she needed answers.
With everything that has been going on with the world, coming forward would just mark her as suspicious. Sure, Wanda had agreed to help her, but it wasn’t gonna be an easy task, let alone knowing where they should have started. Her fingertip touches were calculated and swift, almost as if to make sure she wasn’t gonna stumble upon something she didn’t want to see.
Moments later, she was about to click on a possible key to what she was looking for, a voice suddenly echoed against her eardrums, making her jump slightly ever so slightly in her seat. Turning off her music, she hung her headphones on her nape before tucking brunette strands behind her right ear. “—…H-Huh? Dissertation, you said? Yeah, something like that.” Poppy responded, in hopes to confirm that she heard the woman correctly. “It’s fine. Was my music too loud?”
Cassie winced as the girl jumped, an apology for startling her already forming before she had a chance to speak. “Oh no, it was fine. I’m just too curious for my own good.” She’s not trying to snoop; she isn’t, it’s just pure reflex that her eyes are drifting over to the girl’s tablet and she has to stop herself. “That, and I haven’t seen anyone concentrate that hard for that long since my best friend in college was prepping for the bar exam.” It seems almost worthy of suspicion, and she has to remind herself that not everyone in deep concentration with normal reflexes is hiding a Watergate-level scandal.
“Wrong? I never – ” With a grin, he nodded at her answer. There was a slight crackle in the air as he shifted the light around them to appear as if it was sunset. Different shades of reds and oranges danced along their skin. “Gotta make it dramatic, yeah?” He reached forward and plucked a card ( seemingly ) from behind her ear. It had no number on it – only the symbol of clubs. “Not too shabby.”
There was a childish wonder in her eyes ( one she thought she’d lost out on having ever again ) as she watched the lighting change around them. The journalist in her, along with the mutant who often projected onto others in hopes of finding people like her, was more than tempted to ask how he’d done it, but she refrained until he’d finished. She chuckled as he pulled the card from behind her ear. “Definitely not. How’d you do all that?”
“I was about 14 when I started with a theater group; it was like a stage group on the weekends alongside school. And it was run by a group of guys who’d been to drama school themselves in London. So they introduced us to techniques that they’d learn about, and they kind of informed us about improvisation and screenwriting and all of that stuff.”
