#mustard yellow top

[oneowlartist]

Exam time and study session at your best friend's home? Sounds right? :) Pick this outfit [for teens].

This backpack has ample space to pack your books, laptops and other essentials. Pair it up with a gorgeous yellow crew neck tee and leggings for relaxed movements.

[vintagehomecollection]

Bright Ideas for Your Home, 1978

[kimkaelyn]

" It’s October 31, 2018—Halloween in Shibuya.....You try not to think about it too much as you reach into your bag to check the time on your phone: 8:37PM. There’s not a lot of time: you need to move. "

Inspired by beyond the unending night by @stellamancer

[darksouls2yuri]

im going through an olive/army green phase and i dont even like green that much

[videostak]

Blasting white light white heat while driving to the bank and then the thrift (not the one i work at) fuck yeaaa

[seismologically-silly]

so the hamburger cake i got yesterday is fecking delicious

[tamaharu]

^_^

[yuu-kumeii]

Aksjdgsh talk about target audience

I'm super glad you liked "Bad Hair day" and I'm glad to find another "long hair on men lover" 🤝🏻

Your comments and tags made me smile and laugh so much, thank you <333

Oh and the Atsumu cosplaying Gru thing made me wheeze in real life

Frrr like Bad Hair day was targeted so well 😭 Also yes long haired men lover solidarity 🧎‍♀️ we stand together 🤝 and I'm glad you like my comments 🥺🥺🥺 lately I've been slacking in online interactions so I'm glad you liked the comments I've been able to make 👉👈

And like yeah if Tsumu wants to shave his head then he better be an iconic bald man 😒 might as well call him Grumu from now on 😍

[liyahsim]

[Falling for November] Collection

Hi!

This collection is designed for those Sims who seek authenticity and sophistication with a rebellious edge, featuring a rich and bold color palette in deep wine, black, army green, mustard yellow, electric blue, red, purple, and brown.

The collection is perfect for making a statement with a mix of textures and intense colors, with leather as the ultimate protagonist of an imposing and timeless aesthetic!

Check the full collection here

ITEMS

Leather Jacket with Dress

Leather Jacket

Leather Skirt

Leather Skirt v2

Asimetrical Top

Cargo Pants

Wool Sweater

Chained Moccasins

Leather Tall Boots

SWATCHES

*The ones in green are extra swatches inspired in Life and Dead expansion, I thougth at something for the sims who are in the new Reaper Career  or for the sims with the macabre trait 💀💪.

RELEASE DATES

Leather Jacket with Dress [15/11/2024 EARLY ACCESS] //  [13/12/2024 PUBLIC ACCESS]

Leather Jacket + Leather Skirt [22/11/2024 EARLY ACCESS] //  [20/12/2024 PUBLIC ACCESS]

Asimetrical Top + Cargo Pants [29/11/2024 EARLY ACCESS] //  [27/12/2024 PUBLIC ACCESS]

Wool Sweater + Leather Skirt [06/12/2024 EARLY ACCESS] //  [03/01/2025 PUBLIC ACCESS]

Chained Moccasins + Leather Tall Boots [13/12/2024 EARLY ACCESS] //  [10/01/2025 PUBLIC ACCESS]

Hope you like it! 🧡

@maxismatchccworld ​ @sssvitlanz @coffee-cc-finds  @sims4finds @lanaccfind  @cchunters @ccfinds @c12ccfinds @mmoutfitters @mmfinds @emilyccfinds @redheadsims-cc @wysidiacc @ccsimsfindss4 @maxismatchccworld @lotusplumbob @toastyccfinds @cookiesccfinds @strangecowplantfinds @shaenaeccfinds @eanyroseccfinds @kairasimsccfinds @anikasims @blueishccfinds @petiteluneccfind @alt-lanaccfinds @cc-kallo @ccaholic @ccfindsims4 @brindletonccfinds @cinnamonfinds @arcchive @missimformationccfinds @biancmlfinds @kisaccfinds @ceeplays @llama--plumbobcc @luckyduckycc @faeirysims @tenshialaya

[robinsnest2111]

remembering the cool pair of knockoff chucks I used to have as a teen

they were by the brand Kingsway, were bright red with a cool Chinese dragon print in white around the ankle area. I used to thread jingle bells on the laces (inspired by a friend of a friend) and annoyed everyone at school with them whenever I walked the halls during recess

[literaryvein-reblogs]

When your Character Loves Flowers

Adam-and-eve - a type of orchid (i.e., a plant with unusually shaped flowers) that grows in North America and has yellow flowers that are purple at the end, and a single leaf with thin pale stripes on it

Amaryllis - a plant with groups of white or pink flowers, or a similar plant with red or purple flowers that is often grow for indoor use and is popular at Christmas

Angel's trumpet - a bush or small tree with long, brightly-colored flowers that have a pleasant smell in the evening

Beargrass - a tall plant, with small white flowers at the top that form an oval shape, that grows in high areas of the northwestern U.S.

Bee balm - a plant with red, pink, purple, or white flowers that are attractive to bees

Butterfly weed - a plant found in North America with groups of bright orange flowers

Christmas rose - a European, evergreen (i.e., that never loses its leaves) kind of Hellebore that is grown in gardens and produces white or pink flowers in winter

Death camas - any of several poisonous North American plants of the lily family with leaves like grass and small white flowers

Elephant ear - a garden plant with large heart-shaped leaves

Flamingo flower - a tropical plant with red, white, purple, or pink flowers, that is often used as a houseplant

Garlic mustard - a wild plant with small white flowers and leaves that smell like garlic that can cause problems in areas where it does not grow naturally

Grape hyacinth - a plant that is grown in gardens or in a container inside a house, with small groups of round blue flowers that grow close together around one thick stem

Hybrid tea - a kind of rose with large flowers that sometimes have no smell

Love-in-a-mist - a garden plant with delicate leaves and blue, white, or purple flowers

Mock orange - a bush with white flowers that have a pleasant smell

Multiflora rose - a rose bush that produces thick groups of small sweet-smelling flowers

Old man's beard - a climbing plant that grows wild in the UK and Europe; it has white flowers, and seeds with long parts that look like white feathers or hair

Poached egg plant - a small plant with delicate leaves, and flowers that have white edges and yellow centers

Traveler's joy - a climbing plant that grows wild in the U.K. and Europe; it has white flowers, and seeds with long parts that look like white feathers or hair

Yellow avalanche lily - a plant with very small yellow flowers that grows in the mountains in western North America

Source ⚜ More: References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[tsunodaradio]

change me at all costs ⛐ 𝐂𝐒𝟓𝟓

THIS IS: FORMULA ONE, A MILESTONE EVENT 📀 the three times carlos proposes and the one time you say yes.

♫ starring: carlos sainz x girlfriend!reader. ♫ word count: 2.8k. ♫ includes: fluff, romance, suggestive. mentions of alcohol consumption. established relationship, so much love :(, some spanish. @binisainz requested mitski's cover of bleachers' let's get married. ♫ commentary box: inclined to pack tf up because i don't think i'm ever going to top this. i cannot stress this enough: loop the song while reading. man. what a time. 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

“Did you not get the memo?” 

Before you even turn around, you can already imagine the look on Carlos’ face. A raised eyebrow, maybe. A hint of a smile. Sure enough, he’s sporting that very expression when you glance over your shoulder. 

Fiddling with his cufflinks, Carlos mumbles, “I’ve switched to Williams blue, corazón.”

Your dress for the night is closer to his previous team. It’s not the same shade of red and the highlights are more gold than yellow, but you can certainly see where he’s coming from. This is the outfit of a Ferrari tifosi. 

Ignoring his jab, you hold out the jewelry set that has been giving you grief. “Help me put this on,” you say.

Carlos is already crossing the room before the full sentence is over. He takes the necklace first, and you gather your hair to one side as he fiddles with the clasp. 

“Seriously,” he doubles down. There’s that familiar edge of petulance in his tone, the one you know is mostly joking. Mostly. “I’m sure I’ve bought you at least one blue dress. They’re going to say you hate my new team.” 

Your shoulders shake as you laugh; Carlos pauses to admire the sound. He recovers quickly, now reaching out for your earrings. 

“No one is going to say that,” you argue for the sake of arguing. 

“Everybody is going to say that,” he shoots back. “Betrayed by my own girlfriend. I can already see the headlines.” 

Your earrings now firmly in place, you turn around fully to shoot Carlos a half-hearted glare. He’s dressed to the nines for tonight’s charity gala. His suit, immaculately pressed; his tie, a gift you had gotten him three or so years ago.

You rest your palm against his chest. Instinctively, he places his own hand on top of yours, even as he maintains that slight frown at your alleged betrayal. 

“It’s not Ferrari colors, cariño,” you say patiently.

“Oh?” He cocks his eyebrows a little higher, as if challenging you to debate what he considers to be obvious. “What is it, then?” 

“Think.” 

“Think?” 

“What else is red and yellow?” 

Carlos indulges you. He always does. “There’s red and yellow on a traffic light,” he offers. 

You shake your head. He lets out a small sound— one caught between amusement and frustration.  “Are you ketchup and mustard?” he grumbles, and you gently bump your knee against his in retaliation. 

“You’re overthinking it,” you say. “It’s right here.” 

“Right where?” 

You reach up to tug at the lapel of his suit jacket. That’s when it seems to hit Carlos. The pin resting right over his left breast, given to him over a decade ago by family who always wanted him to remember who he was. A miniature golden flag featuring three horizontal stripes of red and yellow. 

“Spain,” he says, a little bit dazed. 

You reward him by tilting upward to kiss him. Only on the corner of his mouth this time, but a sweet kiss all the same. The teams might change—

“Not Ferrari. Not Williams,” you murmur in the low light of your en suite bathroom. “Just you. Just you.” 

— But Carlos will always be Carlos. 

He’s contemplative as you pull away. He doesn’t let you go that far, his hand still keeping yours firmly pinned over his chest. It’s why you feel the slight stutter in his heartbeat. Before you can deliver some jab about it, he pulls the rug out from underneath your feet. 

“I could marry you, you know?” he says. 

It’s not something entirely out of the left field. The two of you are mutual in the thought that you’ve passed the age of dating for experience. Anything, now, involves future-proofing. Building a life to be shared together. 

You haven’t talked about it a lot, though. For the most part, it’s enough that you’re on the same page. And so you’ve joked about cradles after a couple of glasses of wine; you’ve used the fantasies for ammunition during one or two instances of lovemaking. 

But to hear it, now, completely sober and without a hint of a tease—

Your tone is quiet, almost shy. “It’s just a dress, cariño.” 

It’s not just a dress. You know that. He knows that. He says it out loud, too, as his hand tightens its hold of yours. “It’s not,” he whispers, partly to himself.

You don’t know what to say. 

Gracefully, Carlos recovers faster than you. He blinks once, twice. And then he’s putting his smile back on, like he’s entertained at how effortlessly the two of you fell into something so tender. 

“Well?” he quips. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

“What?” you sputter. 

“I asked you,” he says slowly, enunciating each word, “to marry me. What do you say?” 

It’s a little easier, now, when you can clock the mirth in Carlos’ tone. You give him a low, derisive groan in response, using your hand on his chest to push him back. He detaches with a laugh, his eyes glinting in that mischievous way you’re used to. 

“I say— we are going to be late,” you snipe. “Go fix your hair already.” 

He clutches his chest, feigning offense. “It’s already fixed! Are you saying it looks bad?” 

The impromptu proposal is forgotten, folded in between petty squabbles over hair products and a hasty makeout session in the entryway. But you should know better than to think Carlos would ever let this— let you— go. 

It happens next after a win.

The details are hazy; the mad dash for points always did feel like a whirlwind to you. There’s one too many safety cars, a hint of rain mid-race, a brush with the wall and an ironclad strategy.

It’s all so fast. One moment, Carlos is stealing a kiss from you. (For good luck, he claims, his lips pressed to your temple.) 

The next, he’s first to shuttle past the checkered flag.

“Carlos Sainz has won Yas Marina!” the commentators screech.

You catch words like in a Williams and ahead of Verstappen and legendary, but you’re too busy exchanging bone-crushing hugs with the ecstatic Williams team. A podium finish at the last race of the year is always cause for celebration. 

It’s a glorious finish, fitting of someone who had to crawl his way through hell and back. You’re convinced you’ll remember this your whole life— the way he thrusts his trophy over his head, the way the fireworks go off like technicolor prophecies. 

There are cameras on you, of course. Close-ups of your tear-stained cheeks; photographs of your hands wrung together. His happiness, his safety, is your answered prayer. 

Carlos has some prayers of his own. 

The worst of the media obligations are done. He’s given the cursory reunion, the vouchsafed five minutes with those who love him most. 

There’s his parents, of course, who whisper mi campeón so much that the words feel like Carlos’ second name. There’s the team principal. His co-driver. 

And then. And then. 

It’s in his eyes. You see it, there, when he finally looks towards you. You know Carlos so well that you can predict that look, that you know what’s already on the tip of his tongue. 

“No, no,” you say hastily, the words splintered between your laughs and sobs. “Don’t even think about it!”

He is thinking about it, though. It’s probably the moment in his head. Carlos is a greedy man; he could use another win. Preferably one you’ll grant when he’s down on one knee. 

But he knows you’re right, too. This is not the time. Not when there are dozens of cameras trained on him. Not when everybody is probably thinking it, expecting it, anticipating a velvet box hidden somewhere in his tracksuit. 

And so he settles for something second best. He throws his arm around your shoulders, precariously dangling the trophy in his other hand. You respond by wrapping your arms around his middle. 

The two of you click into place like magnets. Carlos seals it with a kiss, ducking his head low in a futile bid to hide you two with the brim of his cap. 

It doesn’t work. The kiss is front-page news the next day, subject to dozens of videos and articles questioning Where’s the ring? 

But that’s for tomorrow. For now, Carlos tastes like cheap champagne and the drugstore lip gloss you’d given him before the race. 

For now, Carlos is simply yours. 

The evening shimmers like a promise of something yet to come.

You’ve never been more grateful that most important events in your life fall during the off-season. Tonight, it’s your parents’ thirtieth wedding anniversary and Carlos is your enthusiastic plus one. 

He’s well-loved by your family and friends. They’ve since gotten over the myth and the legend of him being a renown race car driver. To them, now, he is merely the love of your life, and vice versa. 

Your younger cousins race past the two of you, shrieking as they play their little game. Your aunts and uncles swap stories of their own marriage, giving you and Carlos unsolicited advice. 

Never go to sleep angry. Your wife is always right. Don’t stop holding hands. 

The last one, Carlos takes to heart. 

For majority of the party, he keeps his touch on you. A casual arm over the back of your chair. His fingers absentmindedly toying with the hem of your dress. His shoulder pressed against yours all throughout dinner. 

He’s in a mood, you can tell. He spends the evening leaning into your personal space so he can whisper one thing or another. Little nothings of this dress will look good on the bedroom floor and I know something sweeter than this dessert. 

You rebuff him at each turn, grumbling about keeping things PG-13. He’s amused— maybe a little tipsy— as he giggles and keeps on going. At one point, he slips into his mother tongue, emboldened by the fact that nobody will understand the filth. Not even you. 

Me vuelves loco, he says after you coo at a baby cousin.

¿Por qué no lo hacemos aquí?, he says as the two of you wander around the garden for a bit. 

Quiero que me montes con ese vestido puesto, he says with a playful tug of your outfit. 

“Stop,” you hiss, the tips of your ears burning red. “Behave, Carlos.” 

The lack of his usual pet name has Carlos letting up, though barely. Your parents are readying to give a toast and he’s back to pretending like he’s innocent, his palm flat on the small of your back. 

The toast is a good one. A reminder of love that endures. There’s not a single dry eye in attendance by the time your parents are setting up for their tradition— a slow dance to the very first song they waltzed to. 

As the small crowd watches on, you feel Carlos’ hand twitch at your back. You glance at him. He’s not looking at your parents. 

He’s looking at you.

His next words are soft. Spoken like a secret, shared like a destiny.

“¿Cásate conmigo?”

There’s no need for a translation. You know this question, know the look on his face. 

Marry me? 

You want to believe it’s the Chardonnay talking. The overwhelming feeling of seeing love endure and persist. But there’s something serious underneath all of it, something just below the surface. 

Carlos isn’t smirking, isn’t joking. He’s asking, and he’s waiting for your answer. 

But, again, again, again— 

This is not yours. Not your evening. Not when there’s a haze of alcohol over the two of you; not when it’s your parents that are meant to be the center of attention.

You give Carlos’ knee a gentle squeeze. It’s enough to pull him out of his head. His face breaks into a sheepish smile and he mumbles an apology; your heart seizes up. You don’t want him to be sorry, don’t want him to think he owes you anything of consequence.

Aiming for levity, you ask, “Where’s the ring?”

He stares at you like you’re the crazy one. You press on, tone playfully chiding.

“Where’s the ring?” you insist. “You can’t be proposing without a ring, cariño.”

Carlos laughs, then. It’s a forgiving sound. “You’re right,” he concedes as he reaches across the table.

He hesitates to pull his touch away from you, but what he plans to do requires both hands. His fingers are a bit clumsy in their movements; once or twice, he has to start over, and you can do nothing but watch with growing fascination.

He gets there eventually. Gently, ever so gently, he takes your hand in his. (He shakes like it’s the real thing.)

The tissue paper ring is slid onto your finger.

It’s a crude imitation of what he truly hopes to give you one day, but at this very point in time, it’s better than any cut of diamond in the world. 

“Mrs. Carlos Sainz,” he says reverently, his gaze flitting to your face to check your reaction.

He finds nothing but your smile, giddy and wide. 

On a day where everything seems to be going wrong, Carlos sets things right. 

The kitchen faucet breaks. He watches a fifteen-minute YouTube video and declares he is now an expert plumber. He succeeds in getting the faucet back into shape, but not without flooding the floor in the process.

You order takeout for lunch; they neglect your special instructions on the pizza. Carlos issues them a strongly-worded review before painstakingly picking out the olives you dislike so much, setting them as far away from you as possible.

Even the shower is not spared by your supposed bad luck. There’s some issue with the apartment’s storage tanks. Carlos lets you bitch and moan, and then, again— that self-assured, reassuring commitment of I’ll fix it. 

You can hear him moving around in the bathroom, can hear the water sloshing in the tub as he tries to get it to the temperature you want. He rightfully assumes you’re still stewing in your misfortune, so he pitches his voice just loud enough for you to hear him singing offkey. 

“I know it's bad when we look out, but bad, bad people, they don’t live in our house,” he belts. “So, I'm gonna get right for you honey! Take all of my medicine, spend you all my money, yeah!”

It chips right through your foul mood. 

By the time you’re getting into the tub with Carlos— the water exactly how you like it— there is no doubt in your mind that this is the person you want to spend all of your days with. The good, the bad. All of it. 

Nothing matters after that. 

Not the dinner plans that have to be canceled due to some double booking by the restaurant. Not the load shedding that plunges your apartment into darkness. Not the stickiness of your sweat as the two of you crawl into bed for an early night. 

The sheets are abandoned, but cuddling is non-negotiable. Despite the heat, he pulls you to him until your foreheads are pressed against each other. 

The conditions are arguably less than ideal.

But if you spend your whole life waiting for the perfect moment, then that will be all it is. Your whole life, waiting.

Your voice is small but certain.

“Let’s get married.” 

Carlos, half-awake, hums a hushed, questioning “hm?”  

“Let’s get married,” you repeat, your breath warm over his face. “I want to marry you, Carlos Sainz.” 

He tilts forward just so, his eyelashes fluttering over yours. When he kisses you, it’s unhurried. Like he knows he’s going to have a hundred more kisses like this— at the altar, in your old age, on your wedding anniversary decades down the line. 

When he pulls away, he murmurs his next words against your mouth. “I heard you the first time,” he rasps. “I just wanted to hear it again.” 

You laugh, and you laugh, and you laugh, feeling an entire lifetime worth of love swell in your very being. You can barely make out his face in the darkness, but you like to think he’s smiling. 

“But I want to be the one who asks,” he says once you’ve settled down. 

“Ask, then.” 

“How impatient, corazón. I should make you wait.”

“You wouldn’t.” 

“No,” he agrees. “I wouldn’t.” 

A beat.

“The ring is in the bedside table,” he reveals, and your heart lurches in your chest. “Underneath my underwear.” 

“Really?” 

“I could get it right now.” 

“No.” Your arms tighten around Carlos. You’re not having second thoughts; you want that much to be clear. You just don’t want any distance between the two of you. 

Not now. Not ever. 

“Just ask,” you tell him gently. “We can do everything else later. Just— just ask. One more time. One last time.” 

There’s a moment of silence. It stretches, long and suspenseful, and you know it’s Carlos’ way of finding the courage he needs. “Okay,” he says, the word exhaled. “Okay.” 

“Will you marry me?” 

[abslvrs13]

IM JUST HELPING OUT- BLURB

pairing: bsf!jj maybank x fem!pogue!reader

synopsis: jj notices something when both of you were walking down the stairs, so he assumes he can do it too.

a/n- idk guys, its kinda- 'uhm?', but i thought of it and ran to my computer. set in season 1.

warnings: boob touching, jj being a dumbass perv, boobs.

it happened a lot. JJ would walk down the steps of the dock, public places and all with you, alot. and whenever he looked over, he saw you- cupping your boobs to prevent them from painfully bouncing- i mean, come on, its an instinct but it does things to jj.

the sun was reflecting off of your skin, the tanned and oily skin- from sunscreen, was practically glowing, and jj couldn't keep his damn eyes off of you. you were like a goddess in his eyes, and he enjoyed every single second of it.

" jj, eyes on the job." mr.heyward spoke from the dock. jj was helping out with the catering at the heywards- pope asked him too. he was supposed to be carrying plastic bags full of food up and down stairs, you were asked to do it too and you kindly accepted, you never ever disrespected adults unless they really deserved it. everyone knew that.

" jj come on, we got stair duty." you spoke, jj grabbed your hand and helped you down from the edge of the boat, like always. " alright, well- i'll carry the bags, you put the stuff away and you can..." he trailed off, realizing he had to watch you walk the stairs- watching your boo- " yeah, come on, we gotta bring the bags up" you said, walking beside his still figure before he mentally shook his head and walked with you towards the old, wooden stairs.

jj and pope are the ONLY people that knew jj had a massive ass crush on you and has had one since the 5th grade when you both met, but over the years you've grown- puberty hit hard and he swore you formed into some sort of greek goddess- like said, earlier.

" so, whats goin' on with you today, j, your like- spacing out each fuckin' second" you said, turning the corner to walk up the stairs, jj tried, he tried not to look at your boobs, but it wasn't working- he wasn't being very subtle either, and it was not on purpose, though you didn't notice, your eyes were focused ahead instead.

" i'm fine..just didn't get enough sleep last night. " he said, his voice almost hoarse, which you side eyed him for. "seems like you didn't drink much water either, dude" that wasn't the reason. he knows its not. its because hes losing his stupid mind over his best friends boobs.

you left the conversation behind and walked up the stairs, on the 3rd step- instincts kicked in and your pushed your ringed fingers up to cup your clothes boobs. 'oh my god. she's doing it, i think i'm going to pass out- lord' jj thought but quickly looked away. jj's boots clicked with the floor, the back of your flip flop hit your heel as you both stepped onto the top of the staircase.

" alright, ill carry the bags back, j" you say, crossing your tan arms in front of your chest, as you both walked towards the destination of where heyward asked to drop off the groceries. jj nodded, clearing his throat- he just doesn't want his voice to be shaky next time he speaks.

jj placed the groceries onto the counter and you walked over to the small, mustard yellow crates. you bent over , jj turned around just as you did and he swallowed hardly. " a-alright, you ready", you picked up the 2 gray plastic grocery bags filled with food, nodding " yep, m'ready"

after both of you walked out towards those damn stairs again, he stood even closer. he had an idea. if you were carrying the bags, your hands would be occupied right?..she cant do her little trick, so, i am. he thought to himself, smiling as well. when you took the first step, he followed. second step. he twitched his finger. he had to do it- right? she'll appreciate..my help, yeah. help.

the third step, your face cringed at the slight pain, but you knew you had to deal with it, you had food in your hands. he cleared his throat and then reached his hand up and placed the palm of his hand in the middle of your chest, his fingers gently pushing into your boob.

" jj!' stop it.." your face flushed with confusion and embarrassment. he held back a bark of laughter, raising his hands in surrender as you both stood on the 5th step. "hey- your hands are full, gotta help my girl" he was honestly amused, he thought you'd appreciate it but your face was full blown red. you continued staring at him with the ' im gonna fucking kill you ' look.

" im just helpin' out"

[moorishflower]

Dutch Mosterdsoep

We return to Soupquest 2025 by venturing much further north to the Netherlends!

Mustard is a condiment that is as varied as it is divisive. Living in the US, my experience with it growing up was of the French's Yellow variety, which I was not a fan of. It's no surprise that it took me until well into my teen years to start developing a taste for sweeter mustards like dijon and honey. These days, I find that I enjoy a lot more good-quality mustards than I ever thought I would, having discovered that putting a schmear of it on a grilled melt elevates the entire experience.

Dutch mustard soup has a lot of varieties, too. For this one, I used what was available to me at the grocery store (and what I knew would be the absolutely most palatable to me), which was stoneground dijon. You could absolutely change the whole flavor profile of this soup if you wanted to use, say, a spicier brown mustard, or even, if you could get a hold of one, a regional mustard from the Netherlands.

This soup is excellent, especially if you aren't a fan of chunky soups. It's smooth and creamy, and the mustard provides a bite and a bit of sweetness (because it's dijon). I didn't find it overly mustard-y, but your mileage may vary if you REALLY don't like mustard. I would NOT suggest subbing yellow mustard for this, but I think any other stoneground or coarse ground mustard of a half-decent quality would be good.

I followed this recipe from 12 Tomatoes. I did translate another recipe that was actually in Dutch, but I opted to use this one as it included leeks for bulk.

Choices I made:

The recipe calls for chicken or vegetable stock. I used Better than Bouillon's roasted garlic paste. Turned out excellent.

You can use either bacon or pancetta. I opted for bacon, because I had it on hand. I think either option would be good. Definitely don't skimp on the bacon if you'd like some texture in the soup afterwards, though!

I did opt to use some cornstarch to thicken the soup a little. I'm not sure it made as much of a difference as a full roux would, but it still tasted lovely!

I topped the soup with sharp cheddar. Not for any particular reason, I just thought it would go well. And it did.

For those who would like to preview the soups I'm planning to try, you can follow along on my World Soup Map! Please note: the free version of this map only allows for 100 items at a time, so there are gonna be a bunch of missing spots.

[dadsbongos]

jennifer's body - z.maki

part of the jjk movie marathon event / movie selection

...

warnings - vaginal fingering *nerd emoji*, thigh riding, maki's the top as per usual, car sex, you're a whiny bitch but maki's into it, potential cum eating

word count - 2.2 K / rating - R

Maki detests a lot of things, but above every single one of those things - she detests being put on missions with you most of all.

“Eek!” Maki’s balance is hardly thrown off despite the way you rip her arm to your chest. You hug her close and push your cheek to her shoulder, “Please protect me, Maki!”

She snorts, looking down at you curled around her form, “You’re a grade two, you know? You don’t have to hide behind me.”

Feeling the impression of your lips molding into a pout against her, you ‘hmph’, continuing down the creaky, dank hall, “A grade two can still be scared!”

Naturally, yes. However, the degree of fear you commonly express makes teaming with you such a hassle. Though not necessarily because she finds it annoying.

Maki feels your skittish fingers dance down to hers, and she clasps your hand tightly. Her heart throbs uncomfortably at the idea of your poor brain all stressed and overheating, skin chilled, and throat too tight to speak. A terrible thing that is. Yes, she hates it more than anything else in the world.

So Maki walks just a pace quicker than you, ensuring she’s upfront. But no matter that, she is not the one to suffer this mission’s great blowback.

As if freshly blistering up from between the floorboards, a puffy, mushroom-shaped spore oozes from beneath your boot. Mustard yellow curd gushes onto the ground from each pore with a soft puff of orange gas into the air.

“Damn!” Maki curls an arm around your waist and tucks you behind her.

The particles cling to your nose, itching and irritating; they claw down your throat and paint over the front of your uniform.

By the time Maki has splattered the curse, you’re feverish. Still coughing up dust and reaching out for her.

“Are you okay?” she cradles your sweltering frame in her broad hands.

“Car,” you wheeze out, falling into her stronger frame, “We need to get outta here.”

Your thighs squeeze together, hips mindlessly squirming into the sticky leather of the backseat. Leaning into Maki, you take her arm again, breasts squishing against her firm muscles and pressing her hand between the clench of your thighs. Her palm digs into the meat of your inner thighs and it takes about 60% of your brain power to keep from humping her hand.

Pressing your face to her neck, you know she can feel the softness of your lips on her smooth skin. You know she can feel the hot puffs of your words, “Maki… Maki I think we should pull over…”

“What?” her cheeks go pink, eyes falling to you from beneath her lenses. Her other hand comes up to cup your cheek, it burns beneath her skin, “Talk to me, huh? What’re you feeling?”

“Hmm,” you turn into the feeling of her cupping your cheek, and your gaze finds Maki’s crinkled face. Eyes wide beneath furrowed brows, lips down in a frown, “I feel so hot, Maki, please- “ you jerk up, rutting against her hand, “Please pull over!”

The car doesn’t stop. Maki moves her hand from your cheek to press against your feverish forehead. She barks over at Ijichi, “Hey, pull over!”

You all jerk at the sudden stop before Ijichi shamefully restarts the car to more carefully move off the side of the road. He turns in the driver’s seat to look at the pair of you, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. You think it’s cuter when Maki does it.

Oh, Maki.

You blink up at her lazily. Lashes fluttering. She reddens more at the movement, you like that.

“Maki,” you whisper, low enough so even Ijichi can’t hear, “I think it was an aphrodisiac.”

She looks away, pointlessly, to the back support cushions behind you. Her chin tucks close to her chest and you can hear the strain in her throat to whisper back just as low, “Can you hold out until we see Ieiri?”

“Mh-hmm,” you shake your head, thighs tightening around Maki’s hand and now using 80% of your brain power to not shamelessly grind on her, “No way…”

You need her. ‘Starved in a dungeon for weeks, and you finally see a fresh loaf of bread’ kind of need.

Maki feels something ugly burrow into her chest at the idea of Ijichi seeing you so weak and bothered. And something uglier arrives when she realizes it isn’t just because you’re an impaired friend - she doesn’t even want Shoko seeing you like this if she can help it. Looking over at Ijichi, Maki jerks her head towards the door.

“Wh-what?” Ijichi stutters out, head lowering.

“Get out!” she snaps.

“Yes, ma’am!” Ijichi jumps out of the car, slamming the door shut in the process.

Maki watches him shuffle towards the trunk and stand with his back facing the vehicle. He twiddles his thumbs and stares down the empty road. She thinks he might be pouting after getting yelled at. She doesn’t spend much time on the thought before you’re sitting up on your knees.

Her hand is (sadly) free from between your legs and you drop her arm to shakily place both your hands on her shoulders. You settle onto one of her thighs, arms curling around her neck. Your nose nudges hers and you press a kiss on Maki’s cheek.

She can feel how warm you are through your thin tights. Unsurely, Maki’s hands find your hips, “What should I…?”

You hum, moving to her other cheek and kissing there, too, “I need you, Maki.”

Her hands squeeze your hips. To stop you or ground herself, she isn’t sure. Both works, probably. Right?

“You’ll regret it later,” now, Maki’s hands try lifting you off of her thigh, “It’s not a good idea.”

“No!” you wail, nails digging into Maki’s shoulders, hips stubbornly remaining in place. You rear back to bat your lashes at her again, chest rising and falling with your gasping breaths, “Won’t regret it, I promise…” your hips lower on her thick thigh, she tenses below you, “I love you, Maki,” you kiss her cheek again, hoping to tempt her, “Love you so much. Need you so bad.

90% of your brain power goes towards not humping her leg like a dog.

She’s frozen solid, your feverish cheek presses to hers and you pray it melts through her icy exterior.

“So jealous of Yuuta,” you murmur, moving to ghost your lips over hers. They’re so much softer than you thought they’d be, and they taste like cherry chapstick. The kind that reminds you of cough syrup, “Talking about him ‘n’ how strong he is… I hate it. ‘m not stronger than you, Maki, but ‘m better than Yuuta,” you feel her grin, her body jolting to life as two hands find the sides of your face, “Just wanna show you that I’m better than Yuuta.”

“You’re jealous,” she ‘tsk’s, “but you’re the one calling Okkotsu by his given name.”

“Don’t be mad…” you fight against her hold on your head and purse your lips against hers, a chaste kiss from you to her, “I love Maki, not Yuuta.”

100% of your brain power is put into your self-control. It overheats your brain and Maki can almost hear the gears churning, smell the smoke pouring from your ears when you finally give up and rut down into her thigh with a shaky gasp. You roll your hips against her thigh once again to test her reaction - she flexes her leg and her hands fly down to your hips to guide your movement.

“Are you sure?”

You sigh against her lips when your clit catches sweetly on her thigh, nodding frantically and rubbing against her thigh faster, “Please, Maki? I’ll go totally crazy if you keep making me beg…”

She snickers against your lips, pausing to kiss you again while dragging your cunt over her flexed thigh, “Sorry.”

A pitchy whine is strangled in the back of your throat, the fire in your gut only burning hotter. Quickly unsatisfied with the dulling sensation between your legs, “Need more, Maki. ‘s not enough.”

Pulling back, Maki pushes up the leg you sit on, hoping to dig out the burning spores under your skin. She tilts her head, “What should I- what do you want?”

But you simply whine in response. Throwing your head back and grinding fruitlessly against her muscled thigh.

“Sorry, sorry,” she muttered, fingers abandoning your sides to dance up under your skirt, “So needy, you know that?”

“Hmph!” you lift your bobbing head to glare at the woman beneath you.

“What?” her nails bite into the snug, thin material of your tights. You gasp when the sharp pop of her fingers bursting the cloth rings out, she snickers at your doe-eyed stare, “They COMME des GARÇONS or something?”

Before you can begin jutting out your bottom lip and squirming off your tights by yourself, Maki worms her fingers through the gape and rips sideways. The warmth of her hand cups against your hot sex, the wet patch on your panties clinging to her skin. The sensation sends tingles down her spine. Down her spine and swirling around to her gut, swelling as you grind down into the heel of her palm.

“Please,” you lean down, pressing your forehead to hers. Heat fanning from your cheeks, and Maki can feel it. You know she can. You know she likes it, “Need you inside me, Maki.”

Her lithe fingers pull your panties to the side before running the pads of her middlemost fingers along your slit. Wetness glides down her skin, her head pitches up and her lips pucker. You meet her in the middle - soft and cherry-flavored - as her fingers slide inside you.

“So wet,” she muses against your lips, “I just slipped in, honey.”

“Need you,” you cant your hips down onto her fingers, “Need you so bad…”

“You really love me?” it could be teasing, but if you pry back the thickened, scarred skin beneath her uniform - you could feel that mushiness in her question. That softness of needing to know how you feel. Needing to know this isn’t a lie that some infection has conjured inside you.

“I love you!” her thumb nudges into your puffy clit, loosely swiping the characters of her name across the bundle. Fingers crooking up in an almost frenzied search for the little spot to put hearts in your eyes. You squeeze your arms tight around her neck, back arching and chest pressing close to Maki’s face, “Love you s’much, Maki! Wanna be your girl…”

She barely catches the admission over your whining moans.

“I’ll make you mine,” she juts her chin at you, “I’ll make all you mine.”

You squeal as she stirs the bubbling, electrified pot inside you, hips rocking down so you’re practically riding her fingers. Arms pulling back, you cup Maki’s soft cheeks and trap her head in place. Once again, your lips find hers.

Her wrist flexes with the force of her thrusting fingers, eagerly chasing the sensation of your velvety cunt sucking her deep inside you. The sloppy, crude sound of your wetness squelching out with every stroke inside your cunt makes her lightheaded. Her thumb quickens against your clit, and your thighs quiver on either side of her own.

“So pretty when you’re falling apart for me,” Maki rests her head against the seat, eyes lazily crawling along your form. She grins, wolfish in nature - like she could scarf you down whole if she pleased, “Really wanna be my girl, baby?”

She could.

“God, yes!” you firmly plant yourself against the heel of Maki’s palm, knocking her thumb off balance and grinding into the meat of her hand. Your juices drip down her hand as she continues to finger you in the backseat, watching the muscles in your thighs tense.

You’d let her.

“Then cum for me, yeah?”

A final press into your g-spot. One last nudge of your clit against her palm. Only one more peck of your lips to hers.

And you’re going limp, save for the unsteady twitching of your hips as the last of your release drools into Maki’s hand. Your head crashes down onto Maki’s shoulder, eyes drooping.

You yawn and Maki slowly pulls out of you, bracing her other hand against your hip to keep you from collapsing entirely. She settles you to slump fully on her lap. Her eyes stray to your cum, webbing between her fingers.

She wants it in her mouth. To slurp up the very essence of you and taste you on her tongue. But she pauses before committing.

That gas - powder? particles? poison? - could be contagious.

Though, if it were, she would’ve gotten it when kissing you, right?

But it could also be the sexual nature - the fact she’s ingesting your cum - that would spread it.

Looking down at you, your closed eyes and parted lips - if you aren’t sleeping, you’re definitely on your way. The heat is subsiding and your breathing has evened out.

There’ll be more opportunities later, she supposes. Mournfully, Maki wipes her sodden hand against her skirt before calling a shaky, flustered Ijichi back to the car.

[daryltwdixon]

Live-In Bodyguard

A requested one shot:

hi!! i was wondering if you could write a little story where y/n and daryl were paired to live together when they first arrived at Alexandria and now have been living together for a while. They’re not necessarily friends, and actually don't really like each other and one day daryl is out hunting when y/n spills something on her clothes, leaving her with nothing but one of daryls old t shirts. 🤭🤭🤭🤭 he comes home and catches her in the kitchen where she pulls the tshirt down to cover her underwear and keeps apologizing. Tyyyyy @dixon555

I did take a little bit of creative liberty on the situation in which he catches you in buttttt what can I say :)

Fluffy, protective Daryl

When Rick comes out to meet you and the rest of the group, explaining the rooming situation at the compound you've arrived to, you can tell he seems hesitant before breaking the news to you. 

“Y/N…” he says carefully, his hand rubbing at his growing beard, “you and…” he looks over to Daryl, his eyes searching his chosen brother’s face. 

“No way,” you say, suddenly understanding, “No way, Rick. I can’t live with this guy,” your thumb points over your shoulder.

“Like you’re such a ray of sunshine,” Daryl snaps back at you, “think I wanna share a place with you either?” 

You and Daryl were…I mean, obviously you had lived together the past however long it had been since the group had found you. It had actually been Daryl who found you in an abandoned house, covered in walker guts and dirt after hearing you screaming when there was a whole group coming into the cabin. But since then, you'd been living in close quarters with everyone. As much as you had appreciated him coming after you, the rest of the time you’ve known him he’s always been on you–how you can’t be trusted on your own, always needing protection, never allowing you out of his sight. You had started going crazy that this man would barely speak to you, but insisted on always having eyes on you at all times. 

Rick sighs, looking at the ground, his forefinger and thumb at the bridge of his nose, “Look, y’all need to figure something out, this is just what I was told. The house has two rooms, you won’t be in each other’s way–”

“Great, great. Thanks a lot,” you groan, heading toward the row of houses, “my own live-in bodyguard,”

“Be nice,” you hear Rick saying under his breath to Daryl.

“Always am,” Daryl replies. 

This was going to suck.

—------------

You’re drinking coffee at the small kitchen table in your house at Alexandria, finally starting to feel settled in the place. Daryl was out in the beginning days of your time here, he finally understood that the walls were enough to keep you safely out of harm’s way. You had tried to sneak out a few times, only to find him waiting for you at the exit, ready to stop you. It’s like he could read your damn mind. So, you gave up trying to work around his helicopter protection. You decided to focus on your house, making it a home for you. If Daryl was going to be out hunting most days anyway, you figured you would make it how you wanted it. You found a way to decorate the place, even if it wasn’t the easiest task. The walls had been freshly painted a couple weeks ago when you saw they were a nasty mustard yellow when you had first walked in.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Oh god,” you had moaned.

Daryl paused, suddenly rushing to you. He came up to your side quickly, scanning the room. You could tell he was on high alert.

“No, no, it’s nothing,” you assured him, “Just…the walls,” 

“The…walls?” he had grunted out

“They’re ugly,” you said to him, simply.

“And you were hoping for…?”

“Maybe a nice blue or something, anything but this awful mustard,” you said, and began walking around to discover the rest of the place. 

Two days later you had found a note stuck to a pail on the kitchen counter, with a large roller brush on top. When you approached it, a small, traitorous smile had crossed your lips.

“For making the walls less ugly” 

You hardly had to guess who the terrible handwriting was from. 

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

You took the whole day to paint, excited for a new project that felt like making the house a home. Setting your lukewarm coffee down on the wooden floor to dip the paintbrush in a fresh coat of paint, you begin your task. You’re lifting the paintbrush up to the wall, gliding it gently along the seams where the corners meet. When you step back to view your work, you trip over your half empty coffee mug you left on the ground, causing you to flail your arms out for support, the paint brush in your hand splattering all over your shirt.

“Ah, shit,” you thought out loud, touching the bits of paint that were wet on your shirt now. There were blue splatters all down the front of your shirt and your sleeves. You sighed, and looked around. You might as well finish before going up to change. 

When all four walls of the downstairs were done, you head up the stairs. 

Unfortunately, you hadn’t really had the chance to get out and scavenge for new clothes in Alexandria since you mostly stayed in the house, trying to acclimate the past couple of days. Daryl was out on a hunting trip today–surprise, surprise. He seemed so pent up since arriving. Every little thing pissed him off lately, his temper was so easily brought out of him. Not that he was very forthcoming on the reason he was so annoyed lately. But you would see him roll his eyes, scoff, and just overall pouting as soon as you arrived. You knew Daryl was most comfortable out in the woods–it was his happy place, oddly. As much as anyone else was terrified to be out in the woods alone, he cherished it. He barely talked to you in the past months you’ve known him but you were quietly getting to know him from afar. Or at least as far as he’d let you get from him. He was intriguing as much as he was annoying to you. 

So you’re up stairs, searching to see if any of your dresser drawers happen to have a fresh set of clothes, but it seems you’re out of luck. The drawers are barren, the dusty wooden bottoms seemed to be mocking you now. ‘Told you to get some clothes,’ they tell you as you open and clothes every single one to no avail. ‘Should've left the house for some when you had the chance–now look at you’. You shake your head– anthropomorphizing a dresser is weird. It’s a dresser. It doesn’t speak. But if this one could you know it would be chiding you for being such a recluse the past few days of arriving at the commune. A sudden thought occurs to you– you had seen Daryl walking in with a few things over his arm yesterday when he came in from being out in the woods again. He had grumbled something along the lines of getting called to the main house and being told off for looking like a forest creature with how ratty his clothes were looking. It had made you chuckle to see him embarrassed, holding a pile of crisp clothes that were such a stark contrast against him, but now you were suddenly grateful. Maybe you could take one of them and he wouldn’t even realize it was his, since he probably hadn’t worn any of them. Looking out into the hallway to make sure he hadn’t snuck in and was about to catch you, you quietly walk over to his room. You hold the doorknob in your palm for a long second, talking yourself into going in. It’ll be fine, it’s not weird–it's just Daryl. You close your eyes shut tight and open the door.

The room was pretty barren much like yours, you weren’t sure what you were expecting, really. As you look around you see signs of his presence though– his poncho hangs over the back of the chair at the desk, the keys to the motorcycle on the wooden chest at the bottom of his bed. 

You sneak over quietly to the chest of things, putting his keys to the side and opening it with delicacy. He could walk in here at any minute and find you snooping, and you’d be dead meat. But when you open the chest, none of the new clothes are there. It’s all his old stuff–the ratty sleeveless shirts, the angel wing vest he would wear, a big tee shirt with car or motorcycle oil stains… You stand and deliberate your best course of action. These options are still better than sitting in dry crusted paint all over you all day. They’re not necessarily dirty, since Carol had come over yesterday to take everyone’s things to be washed. Daryl had surprisingly neatly folded them up in the chest when he put them away–or maybe Carol had and he just left them like that. Gingerly, you pick up the large tee shirt with the faded oil stains, giving it a once over before deciding it was good enough. You take it and make your way to the shower, praying Daryl isn’t back til the evening when you could put it back before bed. 

You’re stepping out of the shower, wringing your hair out when you hear the door close out in the living room. Oh, shit. You were stupid enough to leave your paint splattered shirt in your bedroom along with your pants, only bringing in Daryl’s shirt and a pair of underwear to change into after your shower. You curse at yourself inwardly, figuring there was no way out but to face it. Hopefully Daryl would just stay downstairs while you made your way to your room to put your own clothes back on. You throw the tee shirt on, and it surprisingly makes its way past your butt, hiding everything just enough to be decent if he were to accidentally spot you running for it down the hallway. You collect yourself, wringing your hair out one more time before hanging your towel on the door and stepping out. Steam escapes the bathroom as the door swings open, and you’re looking around the door frame, making sure no one is there. You sigh in relief when you see no one on the landing–Daryl is still downstairs then. Or maybe he’s not even here and just had to grab something on his way out again. 

If only you were so lucky. 

You’re on the way to your room, padding over gently to your door, hand on the banister to keep yourself steady, when you catch in the corner of your eye coming up the stairs. You freeze on the top landing, directly in front of the staircase when he catches you trying to creep down the hall. 

His eyes linger on your face for a minute, and you watch his eyes suddenly scanning you from head to toe. You look down at yourself to assess how screwed your situation is– your wet hair is dripping on the shirt, making parts of it damp and see through. Of course where your hair meets your chest, the wetness is the worst, making the shirt cling to you like a second skin. Your eyes dart up to him as you take in your nearly drenched chest, your nipples hardening to the cold air now that they’re wet. His eyes are glued to you, still on your chest until they start to scan down to your bare legs, where the shirt just barely covers you decently. You squeeze your legs together, bringing the shirt past your underwear, a blush blazing across your face and neck. “Daryl, I'm sorry, I just--”

But suddenly he’s climbing up the stairs and grabbing you so quickly that the air escapes your lungs as he holds you against the wall, his lips crashing into yours.