#:tess:

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ADD  4  ARTWORKS  THAT  REPRESENT  YOUR  MUSE.

“You Have and I’ll Hold” by Margaret Jacobs

“Fiery Dance” by Andrew Atroshenko 

“Quartet” by Aaron Jasinsky

“Pain” by Ryohei Hase

tagged by: stolen from @babydxhl

tagging: @doctorxdoom , @atlaswinged , @misshoodoolady , @yourneighbourjerry , @drorah-walks , @12thlevelintellect , @athenafire , @chaoticvictors , @mustscream , @fangedfirecracker , @algrimthestrong , @ltbroccoli , and pretty much everyone who wants to.

Note: All artwork is copyright of their respective artists.

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[Because Sexual Sunday. ... Tess hasn’t been so “I don’t pump iron” since she was twenty-five.]

Do not reblog without permission.

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REPOST. DONT REBLOG

(Note: I have a very limited selection of Tess icons! Pics of this FC that work are limited, and even then I have to photoshop them. Sooo... well,  some of these are meant to cover more than one emotion. That’s also how Tess rolls, though. She has lots of “I’m done with u” or “I’m faintly smiling” faces.]

The face your muse makes when happy:

       or

The face your muse makes when sad:

The face your muse makes when they see something they want:

or

The face your muse makes when their berserk button is pushed:

[This isn’t even her FC. This is just some random broad from a direct-to-video horror movie. ... I use it anyway. >_> ]

The face your muse makes when they see someone they dislike:

Tagged By:  @camelbeard Tagging:  @avengingson, @the-storm-within-me, @thereptilemutant, @morethanchaosvictors, @profxisajerk, @onlyslightlydoomed, @daggy-o, @drorah-walks, basically anyone. I want to tag all of you.

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"◊"

Put a “◊” in my ask for a sticky note left on your fridge in the morning by my muse - untamedtempest - Accepting

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Scent: homemade bread baking

|| MEME - doctorxdoom- ACCEPTING ||

The sizzle of the griddle and the pop-pop-pop! of grease on cast iron as Grandma Mary slid flat rounds of dough into melted shortening–the scent of bread fried golden-brown instead of baked. Still, every time Tess walked past the bakery by her apartment, she remembered August visits to RIR and her grandmother washing pints of ripe black chokecherries picked special for them all. Mary made chokecherry wojapi while her granddaughters “helped”, Rose crawling along the floor while Tessie and Ruth bickered over who got to stir the bowl.

To her credit, Mary George McKay never gave into the urge to pitch her granddaughters out the window, setting the water to boil while growling at them to “stay away from the skillet!” (Tessie finally started listening after she burnt the back of her right hand, hot oil leaving behind a scar that peeled away the day her mutation surfaced.) She had roughly as much patience for her husband when he snuck into the kitchen to swipe his finger through the bowl of fruit and sugar, pointing her grease-covered spatula at him so that he retreated, unrepentant and winking as his cane thumped along the floor.

During chokecherry season, Tess paid a ridiculous amount of money at a Manhattan culinary store, left with an oddly dirty feeling whenever the woman who owned the store extolled the fruit’s nutritional benefits and how she blended them into her breakfast smoothies with acai berries and sprouted almonds.

“It gives me such a kick in the morning,” the brunette chirped, sidestepping her husband as he wandered past with an oversized wheel of cheese. The cash register dinged. “That’ll be thirty dollars.”

The berries were underripe and under-sweet when she opened the plastic container in her kitchen; Tess gave them to the nice man who owned the corner bakery the next morning. With a tight smile on her face, she murmured, “Might be you can experiment with them. I heard they’re the next big thing.”