#f Crockpot

[dirtsymphony]

Crockpot is finally ready to eat soup and watch scary movies until we both puke

[bunnyb34r]

Feeling very No. Lately which sucks bc i need to go christmas shopping, haven't gone food shopping outside of work (I need to go to an actual grocery store) in over a month, and been eating like shit bc we haven't been shopping and nobody wants to cook :/

Don't know how to break out of this man

[almostempty]

Look at this photograph

(joel miller x f!reader)

The half sequel (Chapter 1.5) to Never made it as a wise man

WC: 3.5k | Part 1 | Other fics | Rating: 18+ 

Summary: you open Joel’s dick pic and (after examination) decide to give him a call

Note: it’s me ya boi (gn), back with more divorceddadrockdilf!joel bc you guys get me. i know y’all want them to fuck, and I want them to fuck too. unfortunately, this flowed through me first, and I am merely a vessel for the spirit of buttrock joel. 

so, until they get their freak nasty on, please enjoy this as a chapter 1.5, with gratuitous dick pic art critique and crankin’ it over the phone <3 don’t worry, he’s still a lil pathetic. mistakes and bad jokes are all on me. 

Tags: au no outbreak modern joel, divorced dad rock dilf joel x f!reader, picks up right where ch.1 ended, dick pic descriptions, alternating pov, dirty talk, phone sex, masturbation, it’s all just phone sex, but edge yourself through it with fond memories of ch. 1, still crackish, but i am still dead serious about it being hot so idc

inspo playlist i found on spotify: Divorced Dad Rock: BANGERZ

thanks: to @hellishjoel for hosting the #hotdilfsummerchallenge and to everyone who enjoyed part 1 

@gothcsz i promise fuckboy!joel is cookin, he’s just in the crockpot rn. he’s gotta tenderize like a white lady’s pinterest recipe for pulled pork. 

* i tried to tag everyone who wanted more, but if you don’t wanna be here i’ll remove it <3 or if i missed you and you want to be tagged next time pls let me know

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” you blurt out after opening the message from Joel. The vulgar dick pick sends a prickly worm of arousal slithering down your spine. 

Without thinking, you tilt the phone down toward your chest, and your eyes shoot up like you’ve got to make sure nobody saw your naughty message. Warmth blooms on your cheeks as the flash of embarrassment starts to dissolve. You don’t need to hide. 

You’re in your bed, in your apartment, wearing Joel’s grubby Creed t-shirt. The one that smells like Degree Sport and a Jiffy Lube break room. You're free to look at all the dick pics your heart desires. And that’s what you’re going to do. 

The wiggle of bashful energy turns into a squirm as you shift your hips, seeking a comfy position in bed. The t-shirt bunches up under your back and you wonder if the unique Joel scent of it will linger on your pillow beneath your shoulders. You knew pilfering the shirt on the way out the door was a good move, and now you get to enjoy your trophy. It makes it feel like the broad-as-a-barn-door DILF himself was still close enough to touch you. 

It gives you another bright shudder when you think about the noises he made when he came in your hand earlier. The disappointed grunts of “fuck, wait” and how he tried to choke down the throaty groan that came from deep in his chest. Fuck. The perverted gremlins that have a permanent residence in your mind have been roused by the digital dick, and now they chitter and squawk at you. More! More! More!  

You reopen the message, and seeing it gives you another rush. You save the picture to your phone storage. For your personal collection. Mine now, big boy. Your chin starts to dip towards your chest. It’s like you’re giving your phone the Kubrick stare with the ghost of a smirk. You’re free to take your time with this one. And you can be as much of a creep as you want. That makes you sigh softly and sink deeper against your pillows. 

Before this afternoon, it was titillating when Joel would pop up in your mind's eye with his slutty slo-mo scenes. The one where he was bent over your car's engine like Megan Fox in that Transformers movie. Or, that damn happy trail tease with the t-shirt-sweat-rag move. You had just enough imagery to let your dirty thoughts take the wheel. 

And, god, you had a good production team in your mind for projects starring Joel. Adding this will give the team a whole lot more to work with. You can hear them crashing around your conscious like the Animaniacs on the Warner Brothers lot. Horny chaos goblin mode activated. 

Now that you have time to study the image, from the luxury of your microfiber sheets and lamplit bedroom, you let it get pervy. It’s your first real, lingering look–earlier today, you were so busy trying to rile him up in his jeans that you didn’t even pull it out.

It had somehow been even more delicious that way. Having him all needy and unable to stop himself from making a mess in your hand. And not just the noises, but the erratic thrusts into your tight fist? The heat of his pulsing length as he forgot himself? Yeah, you’re gonna remember that one. 

But now? Now you need the visual. If the devil is in the details, you have a new neighbor with horns and a tail. 

You zoom in on everything. Holding your phone closer to your face than necessary, like how do we enhance this bitch? 

And holy shit. 

Drool pools in your mouth and between your legs. You have the knee-jerk reaction to lick your phone. 

You can hear Joel’s voice from earlier today. All husky and grumbly, arguing that you really were a slut for him, like, “You are, aren’t you, though? You came all this way in this excuse for a shirt just to see me?”  He might be touch-starved enough to cream his jeans, but you just know he’s got a nasty mouth in bed, and you’ve got to find out firsthand. Soon. There’s no reason not to, right? 

You pause when a flicker of reasoning tickles the back of your neck. 

You’re back to looking in your review mirror in Joel’s driveway. The last-ditch attempt at checking your ego before you marched to his front door like a Halloween hoe bag version of Betty Crocker. 

You had told yourself you weren’t trying to fuck your (almost) friend’s (sort of) dad. Told yourself there was nothing to pursue, and even if there was, you wouldn’t bite. 

You like Ellie. She’s been (mostly) welcoming to you. You told yourself not to fuck anything up with the only person that’s got a single one of your jokes at your new job. 

You were just bringing some food as a friendly gesture. The fresh visuals to add to your spank bank reel were supposed to be a harmless bonus. Okay, maybe it was a stretch to say you had rolled up to Joel’s driveway with pure intentions. 

And it was an even bigger stretch–when he added that third finger while he finger fucked you on the kitchen counter—wait, no. It was an even bigger stretch when you had told yourself you probably weren’t his type anyway. 

Like, that guy? With the fridge full of Coors Banquet? With those ugly Oakley sunglasses that you know are featured in his only picture on social media that isn’t a car or truck? The guy with all the words to Buckcherry’s “Crazy Bitch” and Puddle of Mudd’s “She Hates Me” memorized? 

Nah, deep down, you knew. You knew there was no way that middle-aged bachelor would turn down any action. But you hadn’t planned on actually making a move, especially not a handjob in the middle of the kitchen. 

That’s on Joel for leaving the door open while trying to rub one out to some bimbo on Brazzers. And for barking at you in that sexy, angry voice. And for teasing you with the bulge in his oil-stained jeans. What were you supposed to do? 

Something must be really rotting in the logic department of your brain. 

Hey! The gremlin voice in your head is still shouting at you. Hey!! Why are we not tasting that dick yet?!! You’re back from your daydream and the excuses you crafted for your behavior, back to laying in your bed with Joel’s dick pic emitting a bright glow in your hand. 

You still do want to lick the screen. 

Fortunately for your immune system, you control your tongue. The critical part of you expels a sigh when you zoom out and take in the picture. 

It’s undoubtedly a nice cock, but the image as a whole? Yikes. 

Why do men have to be so fucking thick? And blunt? Wait, now you’re just describing the slightly blurry boner lighting up your face. Thick as in dense. How can men be so dense? 

No imagination or creativity. No patience. 

You shake your head slightly, scoffing. No wonder you caught him hunched over his cracked phone screen. It was probably the first video loaded on the only site he had saved. 

No sweet, sweet, buildup, setting the mood, or getting cozy. Just whippin’ it out midday or snapping a photo in some ratty sweats. 

Like you’ve never been that touch-starved or down bad?

You ignore that voice to continue your art critique. 

The photo you sent is… sexy. 

Sultry. A flirty tease. It says, “Look who has your shirt? Am I wearing it in bed? Do you think I'm wearing anything else?” 

It’s all implied in the look in your eye and the picture's composition. The tease of the soft curves on the underside of your breasts, asking if he remembers what they felt like. Your hand bunching up the shirt, asking if he remembers the slide of that fist around his cock. If he remembers those fingers, the ones you sucked his sticky spend off of. 

Such delicately crafted imagery. Personalized erotic fine art.  

But men are so crude about it. He sees your tasteful, sexy pic, and immediately, the best his caveman brain can come up with is: send her ur dick! STAT!! Hard cock! Now!!

And, of course, he did. Taken in the dark with the flash on, making ominous shadows in the background. His old charcoal gray sweats are pulled down just enough to expose everything he’s offering. 

The color is slightly blown out from the flash, and it’s a touch blurry where his phone didn’t autofocus quickly enough. His hand looks like it’s straight up, just choking the base of his cock. It’s jarring. 

But that’s really the “man” of it all, right? Nothing subtle or demure about a rock-hard erection jutting towards you, reaching like it could get to you on its own if it just could get a little bit harder. No, there’s nothing coy about the raw thoughts of a man with no blood left in his brain who’s just aching to get inside you, either. 

And fuck if that doesn’t start to override your critical analysis. 

The glare from the flash reflects in the beads of precome rolling down his rosy tip. Mouth wateringly delicious. Your blood rushes to your pussy, filling your tender sex with heat and a deep, needy itch. It makes you dopey and silly. Not cock drunk, but like, dick pic buzzed. 

You know it felt sizeable in your hand earlier, but you aren’t an expert at estimating size from a through-the-pants handjob. You try to recreate your own grip around nothing to estimate the size. 

You giggle to yourself when you realize you're just a woman in her bed staring at her hand, jerking an invisible cock. The horny goblins aren’t amused, though. They’re sick of the daydreaming and distractions. They’re picking fights with the rest of your mind. Throwing rocks and sticks, shrieking and hissing. 

The part of your brain that was griping about how men used to write love letters and respect the art of romance is getting quieter and further from your faculty for caring. You can hear its muffled shouts, and you assure that voice that you won’t give it all up this easily. Then, you completely tune it out. 

The last brain cell with a complaint has you rolling your eyes. You have to be ovulating or something because it’s wholly debased the way this guy is doing it for you. 

He’s just shameless with it. 

You sent him tasteful underboob, and he gives you jumpscare dick-in-the-dark! How is this supposed to escalate? He gave it all up immediately! You send another picture, and he sends you his money shot? What’s he gonna do to give you more? Send you an asshole shot? That one makes you snort. You bet he would do it, too, if you asked. 

Oh, that gives you a better idea. He’s not getting another picture from you at all. You tap on his name and tap the call icon. Of course, this horny motherfucker answers immediately. You aren’t sure it even rang before you’re connected to his porny bedroom voice. 

“What are you wearing, dollface?” 

“I already showed you. Call me dollface again, and I’m hanging up.” 

You can hear his breathing like he’s got the mic on his phone in his mouth. That would typically drive you fucking nuts, but right now, you wanna hear his heavy breath against your ear and feel it hot against your skin.

“All right,” he speaks slowly, distracted. You know why. “You wanna be my slut, instead?” 

Fuck. That has you throbbing between your legs, but he doesn’t get to know that yet. 

“I already told you,” you keep your voice low and soft, “you don’t get to call me a slut for you, not with your behavior.” You strain, trying to hear any other noises, but his mic is probably clogged with dust from his shop or lint from the pocket of his sweats. You can just hear his fucking breathing. 

“What behavior, baby?” he rasps.

“You always jump straight to sending a picture of your cock?” 

You hear the soft snort through the phone. Followed by a deeper, throatier noise. A noise that makes you go cross-eyed and has you running a hand down to your naked lower half to tease yourself. 

“You always steal a man’s clothes after you come on his fingers?” 

You don’t really care what he asked. His voice makes your tongue go numb. Your mind goes blank. You start slowly, coating your own fingers in your slick arousal and drawing circles with a light touch. 

You hum a noncommittal response into the phone. 

“You look good in my shirt, baby, fuck,” he trails off breathlessly. The idea of you in his clothes gets him too close. 

You don’t answer, and he’s too far gone to wait and tease. 

He’s been wound up since you took off this afternoon, and it doesn’t feel like a coincidence that you sent him that pic when he had just gotten into bed.

It had taken ages to get his brother out of the shop this afternoon, and then Joel completely fucked up when he mentioned you and the lasagna. He had to begrudgingly host Tommy for dinner when he couldn’t come up with a better excuse than saying, “I’m gonna need you to fuck off so I can deal with the aching balls I’ve got from your surprise visit scaring away the woman I had my fingers knuckle deep inside.”

But when he was finally alone, it was like fate; your text came through right after he flopped onto his bed. His semi-stiff cock had sprung to full mast at the sight of you. The shirt he knew he didn’t fuckin’ lose, your soft curves, and the expression on your face. Like a vixen. Your PG-13 tease would do more for him than any X-rated video. 

Knowing you were thinking about him and that you wanted him to know? That had him throbbing. He already knew from the desire in your eyes earlier today that you wanted more.

He could swear his fingers still hold the lingering flavor of your wet cunt. The visceral memory of you has him on edge. When he wraps his hand around the base of his cock, he has to pause, holding firmly in place. His body screams and aches for release, but he’s determined to keep it in check. He doesn’t want to blow his load until he gets a response from you. 

He fights his urges, trying not to fuck his own fist in a frantic race to come. 

But, fuck, it’s difficult when he can imagine the sounds you’d make as you sank onto his cock for the first time. The face you’d make. Your tight, wet walls hugging him just right. Like, he’s where he’s meant to be. 

And the way you would look, bouncing on top of him. Your tits, your blissed-out face, the way your soft lips would part when you called out his name and cried for more. 

Those lips. 

The way he’d love to see them swollen and slobbering around the base of his cock. Fuck. His hips buck reflexively, and he hisses out a breath through his clenched teeth. When his phone lights up with your name, he answers before it can make a sound. You’re so bold. He likes that. It plasters a saucy grin on his face. 

And now, with your breathy voice crackling through his janky phone speaker, he’s not gonna last long. You've got him losing his composure for the second time in one day. His whole body is rigid. His toes flex and snap unconsciously, and his jaw tenses. He hears your soft moan, and his thoughts are overflowing. He has no filter left. 

“Yeah, baby? You moaning for me?” His hips punch up into his fist, and he gives in, allowing himself firm, severe strokes. “You’ve got me so hard. You moaning for my cock?” 

You are so not gonna answer that one. If the next words out his mouth are, “Yeah, you like that?” you’re gonna block him for that. But it is undeniably hot to hear him already so worked up. You just know he’s gonna be coming all over himself again for you, and that really does make you moan just for him.

Your noises earn you another growly groan from Joel that you’d kill to hear again. The more uninhibited his noises are, the louder you get in response.

“You using your fingers, or you have a toy?” his question is punctuated with a grunt. 

“Mm, just fingers,” you purr, finally granting him an actual response as you roll your hips. Having Joel on the line gives you a heady sense of satisfaction. Wondering what’s going to come out of his filthy mouth next gives you a shiver of anticipation. 

“I know that sweet pussy is just achin’ to be filled again.” Correct. 

“Yes.” 

“S’right, baby, I know.” 

Joel whimpering on the phone for you is absolutely going to get you off. Your hips chase your own fingers. You switch your phone audio to speakerphone and drop it on your pillow so you can use both hands. Pinching at your own nipples as if it were Joel’s big hand under your smuggled shirt. 

“Tell me,” he pants, “who do you need to fill it for you?” 

“You, Joel.” 

“Fuck,” he chokes out, “you wanna ride this cock, huh baby?” 

“Mhmm.” Bingo. Right again. You wish you could feel the pressure of him inside of you, massaging and soothing away the agony. The weight of his body atop of yours, so solid and secure. You can just about feel the pressure of his pelvis grinding into you. The friction from the coarse curls at the base of his cock getting you closer and closer. 

“Know you’d do so good,” he cuts himself off with a low noise, “so damn sexy.” 

“What else would you do with me?” You wanna hear it. For your own fantasy and to know what he’s into.  

“I’d have you taking me down your throat til you’re crying on it for me, fuck,” a primal noise erupts from him.

Face fucking. Of course. You can’t deny that when he says it, your body responds instantaneously. Your pussy floods eagerly at the idea, and your cheeks burn hot from the visual he gives you. You swallow down your moans, and you can imagine the weight of him on your tongue and the strain of trying to swallow around his cock. 

“You wanna come down my throat?” As if that isn’t a fucking siren song that would make him steer a fleet of ships into a cliff? Your salacious words are too much. 

“Shit. Yeah, baby, wanna watch you swallow for me.” You let all your moans and gasps flow freely for him to hear. “I’m so fuckin’ close,” he can’t stop the words from spilling out his mouth, “let me hear it, baby,” he can’t stop his pending bliss either. “Please, baby, I can’t, oh f-fuck,” he cuts himself off with another primitive grunt, and that’s precisely what your cavewoman cunt wanted to hear. 

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” The horny goblins chant out loud this time. You can envision sweaty, pleading Joel lurching toward a reckless, full-body climax. 

You’re far from grace when the crude sounds he lets out turn you into an uncivilized beast. You hear him gasping, growling, and whining for you. It plunges you into a staggering orgasm. Rolling waves of ecstasy leave you panting and sweating.  

You lie in bed, chest rising and falling beneath the Creed logo. You’re left stunned at the intensity. A dreamy smile spreads across your face, and warm contentment, like honey, pours slowly over your muscles. Relaxing you as your tension softens and you turn to pick your phone back up.

Why was it so wholly consuming just to listen to him? Imagining the mess he made again,

because of you. 

Maybe you’re just made for each other. 

You and Joel. 

Oh, god. You should start listening to Alanis Morissette and Evanescence and trade your car for a 1990s-era Toyota 4runner and a pack of Marlboro Smooths. Really lean into matching his freak and the divorced alt-rock vibes.

You laugh softly into your phone before a deep sigh possesses you, and you nearly fall asleep. You stretch and smile, letting your heavy eyelids rest. 

He’s muttering something at you, catching his breath from the stress of being that fucking horned up for you all evening. And the overexertion of lasting long enough to hear your sweet cries of release. 

“You’re unreal,” his smoky voice rings with awe. “Got me shooting loads like a fucking teenager.”

You snort at the juxtaposition of his tender voice and crude comment before ending the call with a whispered, “Goodnight.” 

It shouldn’t make you smile. 

But he’s somehow such an enticing disaster. A cliche lonely bachelor, a cocksure idiot who knows he’s got a big dick and a generous guy who was willing to fix a stranger's car. 

You shouldn’t be trying to justify it, but you know he had you figured out earlier. 

You may be sated tonight, but you won’t be able to rest.

Not until you get your hands on that DILF – or rather, your pussy on that dick. 

divider by @cyberangel-graphics

PLEASE tell me if you enjoyed or hated it 

OR throw rocks at me if you’re upset they didn’t smash yet or tell me ur favorite divorced dad rock song

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[emily1-johnson]

Easy 4-ingredient Crockpot Ravioli Lasagna Bariatric Latest Kitchen Recipes 2024 A simple and delicious crockpot lasagna using only four ingredients for an easy meal solution. Components : Jarred spaghetti sauce, 24 oz. Shredded mozzarella cheese, 16 oz. Ground beef, 1-pound. Frozen ravioli, 16 oz. Preparation Steps : Grease or spray your crockpot insert first. Arrange layers: half of the sauce, followed by ravioli, then beef, and cheese. Repeat with remaining ingredients, keeping cheese last. Set crockpot to high for 3 hours or low for 5 to 6 hours. For the stove, combine all but cheese in a large skillet, add water, boil then simmer. On the stove, once simmered, spread cheese on top, let sit covered for melting. For the oven, preheat to 350°F, layer minus one cheese top, bake then add final cheese bake again.

[joels6string]

More Than My Father's Son

Joel Miller x f!OC

Chapter 8 - Slow-Cooked Dreams

Summary: A day out and a night in are ready to force someone's hand into finally giving in.

Rating: E

Word Count: 5k

Content: NSFW, high levels of violence normal to the TLOU world, angst, fluff, miscommunication trope (it’s Joel Miller…), slow burn, Joel’s traumatic childhood, getting together, smut, canon divergence after SLC, fix it fic

As the air grew colder, you’d grown warmer, and somehow he’d remained a target of your blossoming affinity for company and laughter.

Chapter 7 || Series Masterlist

“What the hell are you lookin’ for again?” 

“A crockpot.”

“The hell do you need with a crockpot, Chef Boyardee?”

“It ain’t for me. And I cook better’n you do, kept food on your plate, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

They were on neighborhood two, house six, the two Miller brothers loudly rummaging through cabinet after cabinet in search of Joel’s prize. A light dusting of snow covered the countertops as he stood from his crouched position, the flurries fluttering in from the shattered remains of a window as Tommy swung open a large pantry, the top hinge snapping from the force of it. The eruption of gruff laughter could be heard from the sidewalk outside, had anyone been around, and when Tommy pulled out the gaudiest set of mixing bowls that definitely would have been worth money if the world hadn’t gone to shit. They didn’t even need to speak to know what came next. 

Fruit-adorned porcelain sat in a row on the front porch railing, Joel’s rifle locked and loaded as he aimed through the remnants of a storm door’s window, the first and biggest bowl shrieking as the echo of gunfire still reverberated through the mountains. Tommy went next, and the two alternated before the remnants of the antiques crunched beneath their boots, rows of clear drinking glasses flanking a coordinated pitcher as they pushed the guilt of wasting ammo to the wayside in favor of continuing the lighthearted laughter that had settled. 

Tommy took out a glass in the middle of the left line, Joel took out the end of the right, and as Tommy lined up again, a familiar sight came into view. 

“What the fuck are you two doing?!” you called out from the street, out of breath and sweating despite the frigid temperature.

“Just havin’ a little fun!” Joel called out mischievously, “Aren’t you supposed to be at the river?”

“Did the river. It’s clear. And then we hear gunshots on the way back and I raced over, all to find you in a battle with…Pyrex!”

“You gonna come up here and join us?”

He watched as you battled with maintaining your scolding position or giving in to the game at hand. He knew which one you’d choose. It had been two weeks since Tommy and Maria allowed you back on patrols a few times a week, not with the frequency of before but it was enough to scratch the stir-crazy itch that had put you into an even more agitated state than you already were. Joel had begged and reasoned, he’d even taken you out into the fields just up the hill from the gates with an assault rifle in hand, firing shots into bales of hay until you could make it from 3 shots to 10 before screaming at him to stop. Then days later it was 20, and then with a deep breath you managed to look at him with those bright green eyes untainted by fear and nod; it wasn’t perfect, it still scared you half to death, but you’d gotten enough of a grasp on it that Indy got her preferred partner back three times a week, your other days spent still sharpening the kids’ skills with a bow safely in the walls of Jackson.

“C’mon now,” he beckoned with a sly grin as he held the rifle out towards you, “Don’t be a bummer.”

“My mother would kill me if she knew I was shattering these historical relics,” you jested as you approached, “The pitcher is mine.”

“Go on then, Legolas. Last I knew I still had you beat in rifle work.”

“You watched Lord of the Rings?”

“No. I read it.”

“Guess that’s what we’re watching next.”

“Get that in one shot from behind that couch and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

The obstacles they’d set up in their game were still in place, a couch ten yards away set centered to the now empty door frame. Not like they needed to lock the place up. You positioned yourself behind it as if it were a blockade, a brother on either side, one intently watching the state of the glass outside, the other’s gaze firmly fixated on you and the way the snow nestled in the strands of your hair. He watched as you lined up the shot, confidence in your movements as the heel of the rifle nestled into your shoulder. Perfect form. He should have known. 

One shot echoed, the shattering of glass following, your beaming, smug smile shining up at him. He couldn’t help but let the corner of his own lips tug up towards his eye and he nodded proudly. He was hoping you’d make it. 

“Your place or mine?” you asked, dragging your lower lip through your teeth in that way that drove him insane. 

“Well you just did your…what was it again? Winter cleanin’?” he teased, recalling finding you on your hands and knees scrubbing the grout in your tiled bathroom floor last weekend when he came to grab you for the now-ceremonial bi-weekly market trip.

“You knock it, but I’ll be hibernating through the mountains’ winter with sparkling baseboards and shiny faucets. And come spring, I’ll have less to do.”

“If you say so.”

“You’re the one saying you want to come to my place because it’s clean.”

You had him there. It always smelled like lavender and the green of the plants you’d begun to accrue from people around town invited him into the space you’d made your own. As the air grew colder, you’d grown warmer, and somehow he’d remained a target of your blossoming affinity for company and laughter. He’d always known it was there, Ellie had always brought out the side of you that was buried beneath years of torment and hardship, but now you were releasing it for others to experience now and it was a wonder in and of itself. The way your nose scrunched up and your eyes crinkled at the corners when you laughed never ceased to pull a smile from him, it was like you were the god damn sun and he was just a moon in orbit, forever searching for more of your light. But you were still just as fierce, just as deadly, if not more so now with a steady place to anchor both physically and seemingly within yourself. He was infatuated. It was dangerous. 

“Alright you two,” Tommy chimed in with a knowing tone, Joel had just been staring at you and the way your eyes sparkled with pride and victory, he wasn’t sure how much time had passed, “We should get back.”

“Did you boys search the place?” you asked as you stood, “I’m still looking for a fucking slow cooker.”

Joel couldn’t help but smirk at himself, tipping his chin down to hide his satisfied expression. 

“We looked down here, upstairs is all yours.”

With Joel's rifle still in hand, you took off up the stairs, Joel avoiding Tommy’s eyes that he knew were waiting to be acknowledged. He wasn’t in the mood to hear one of Tommy’s speeches, he didn’t know what Joel had been forced to become privy to so many years ago. Tommy and his idealistic views that had somehow maintained even through the end of the world didn’t know the pain on the other side, and Joel prayed he never would. 

His attention followed your boot steps on the creaking floor above. He knew no one was in the house, but that didn’t ease his heightened senses as his ears tracked you through the rooms. What he didn’t catch was the way his feet also carried him slowly beneath you. Nothing more than a moon in orbit. 

“Hey Joel!” you called, “Joel!”

“Yeah?!” he responded loudly up the stairwell, your head peeking over the landing down at him.

“Come help me real quick.”

You were standing beneath a boarded-up attic, hands on your hips, the scar that decorated the seam of your jaw and throat on full display as you stared up at the ceiling. 

“I ain’t that tall,” he mused, standing beside you and leaning his shoulder against the wall.

“Just boost me up,” you replied nonchalantly like you’d done this a thousand times before, “that wood is fucking ancient. I can snap it.”

“If you say so.” This you had done before. “Up you go.” Your legs surrounded his head as you sat atop his broad shoulders, his knees straightening and pushing you up to grip against the rotted slats. 

After a few good tugs, you did exactly what you said you would, the barrier snapping beneath your leather gloves as you gave a small victorious laugh. At this height, you were able to simply pull yourself up into the attic, tossing him down a ladder so he could join you, his eyes automatically sweeping for threats as soon as the space came into view. You were already rummaging through boxes, not a care in the world, and his heavy sigh as he hoisted himself up had you whirling back to stare at him. 

“Gettin’ old, Tex?” you teased, his nostrils flaring in a way that had your face twisting in annoyed confusion, “What?”

“You need to be more god damn careful,” he scolded, growling into your ear as his chest brushed over your shoulder, “Anyone…or anything, could have been up here.”

“In a boarded-up attic? That’s one impressive food supply by the age of that wood and the rust on the nails. Lighten up, Joel. I can assess my surroundings just fi—“

Creaking turned to splintering as you turned back towards the pile of boxes you’d been searching through, his still-sharp reflexes wrapping his arm around your middle and pulling you back just far enough to keep your feet on solid ground as a gaping hole where you’d just been standing sent light beaming into the dark space. 

As the shock wore off, he could feel the way your breath was heaving in his grip, your fingers woven through his against your stomach as you gripped him and he cursed the cold weather for making leather gloves a necessity. It was instinctual the way he leaned his head against yours, his arm pulling you tighter as he pushed the what-if from his mind and grounded in the reality of you not impaled on the wood piercing up towards the sky, memories of his own injury that had almost left Ellie alone and abandoned in Colorado flooding back. He could feel the rebar piercing through his stomach, the agony of being pulled off, and the panic that had set in when hunters swarmed the old science building, leaving Ellie to defend him bleeding and sputtering on the floor. 

“Please be careful.” It was a whispered plea, not a demand but a desperate request. 

He felt you nod, your spine curling slightly to fit the contour of his chest, and the way you leaned back into him had his eyes drifting closed as the subtle scent of lavender paired with the warmth of your body and softness of your hair against his cheek infiltrated his senses.

“What the hell was that?!” Tommy yelled as he ran up the stairs to the second floor, his voice pulling both of you from the safety of the moment and back into reality, “Joel?”

“It’s alright!” Joel called back, turning his head to not yell into your ear but immediately returning as soon as the words left his lips, “You okay?” 

“Yeah,” you gasped, and he swore he felt you nestle your head against him further for a split second, your hair catching on his beard before you pulled away without a glance back, “Help me look around?”

The meekness in your voice was unsettling, but he agreed, lingering within arm’s reach as you found boxes of cold-weather clothing, pots and pans, Christmas decorations, and children’s toys. Tommy had gotten involved, both yours and his eyes lighting up at the hoard of useful supplies, Tommy taking box after box through the hole in the ceiling (from his perspective) as you and Joel worked as an assembly line in the attic on wood he’d deemed safe to stand on. 

As luck would have it, two large sleds were tucked into a back corner, their width when tied together with a thick wool blanket between them working like a sling just barely wide enough to fit the haul of supplies thanks to Joel’s ingenuity. Tommy and his horse hauled it along between you in the front and Joel bringing up the rear, the silence giving you time to reflect as the barren trees gnarled up towards the sky and the steady hoof steps of Bill your not-so pony echoed through the mountain's well-worn paths. 

It had been awhile since you’d been close enough to Joel to feel that lingering comfort of the scent of warm leather and sawdust that clung to him despite the canvas jacket he wore. The effect was still the same. Your head was swimming with the heat of summer, the phantom of his palms gripping the backs of your thighs, the sway of your horse mimicking that of Joel’s steady stride. You dwelled in these memories more than you’d ever admit, and far more than you preferred. 

Everything was so pleasant now. And you’d come to depend on him in ways you’d been warned many years ago to not dare consider. But none of it felt wrong. In fact, it had felt more right than any other decision you’d made. But still, that voice nagged in the back of your head that this was a bad idea, a risk, a disaster in the making, yet still a piece of you clung to the hope that this was different. He was gentle and kind—to you at least—attentive and generous, capable and strong, he was a man that shouldn’t exist after all he’d been through yet there he was, slinging a coat still warm from the heat of his body around your shoulders after you’d been too stubborn to wear one to your weekly Bison trip or fixing the leaky sink in your kitchen without so much as a grumble of irritation. But although you had changed entirely since arriving at the safe haven settlement of Jackson, the world hadn’t. And that was something you were constantly reminded of. 

Both of you helped Tommy unload the supplies at the inn, with you promising to return tomorrow to help Maria sort through them as he and Joel went out on yet another patrol. Things had gotten worse lately, both with infected and hunters, there was no shortage of bodies laden with bullets in the surrounding woods. 

“What’s this over here?” you asked as you tried to sort the boxes into categories to make the job easier tomorrow, your hand sliding over Joel’s back as you snuck through the small space between him and the wall, his muscles twitching beneath your touch as it grazed over him, “Can you put it over there?” you asked sweetly, peering up at him with a smile as he nodded, a soft “thanks” following as your fingers repeated their previous motion on your way back to the front of the room. 

It made his stomach hurtle to the floor. You’d been doing it for weeks now, fleeting touches as you passed by, playful hands on his shoulders, and knees resting against his beneath a table. Not reading into it had been almost impossible, the fact you also did the same with Indy and Ellie was the only place to ground himself he had. It was just you and how you’d rediscovered parts of yourself that had long been buried. 

“Joel!” Ellie’s exuberant voice called out as she rounded the corner, both your and Joel’s attention turning as your boots hit the street, “Joel…Cat found me…a Nintendo.”

“A what?” Joel chuckled at the way she was sucking in air.

“A Nintendo. You know…video games.”

“Oh, right. Well I’m sure you’ll have a blast with that.”

“Do you wanna play?”

“I think…playin’ with your friends is gonna be way more fun. I don’t know what I’m doin’ with those things.”

“Neither do I.”

Your elbow jutting into his ribs had his eyes snapping over to you, your eyebrows raising in a silent urging as you ticked your chin towards Ellie at his other side. 

“She wants to play with you,” you hissed through your teeth, hoping he could hear it and Ellie couldn’t, realization falling over his face, softening the fine lines etched into his sun-darkened skin.

Fuck, he shouldn’t have needed to be told that. It was all there in the hopeful gaze staring back at him, another pair of big green eyes that could work wonders against his stubborn ways. As the tug-of-war between his own self-loathing and the swell of pride Ellie’s desire to spend time with him raged, his cheeks flushing pink as the corner of his mouth pulled up into a smirk, your own reassuring one caught in his peripherals. 

“Arrow comin’ too?” he asked mischievously, knowing Ellie would never pass up a chance to have you around and damn if he wasn’t going to take advantage of that.

“Duh,” she retorted, and you smiled fondly at the ground as your chin tipped to your chest, warmth flooding your chilled cheeks.

“Alright kiddo,” he finally obliged, “go set it up.”

Without a word, Ellie was sprinting back the way she came, Joel once again focusing his attention on you. There was a softness present, a vulnerability swimming through hazel that was typically hard as stone. 

“Hope you don’t mind,” he said with a bashful tone, and you shook your head, “I’ll grab dinner from the Bison if you wanna head over around 6.”

After a shower, the hoodie you’d managed to snag from the swap shop welcomed you in, a loose pair of sweatpants to match being donned after you twisted your hair into a messy bun; those two had seen you at far worse, one step from sleepwear wouldn’t change their opinions of you. The sun had already begun to set as you meandered your way to the white house on Rancher street, one your instincts could bring you to in your sleep, your knuckles rapping three times on the door before you let yourself in with a bellowing “hey” at the owner’s previous insistence. 

“Kitchen!” Ellie yelled, “Joel forgot to get you no tomato!”

“Why do you gotta tell her?!” you could hear him scolding as you approached, “I’m fixin’ it anyway!”

“Because it’s funny.”

“It ain’t funny… You’re gonna get me in trouble.”

“It’s kinda funny,” you agreed as you rounded into the dining room with a table too grand for the three of you, plates set out with each of your favorites from the only restaurant in town.

“I told him,” Joel defended, dropping a pitcher of lemonade onto the table hard enough to have some sloshing out, “I swear.”

“Is this Ellie’s famous lemonade I’ve been hearing about?” you asked after giving Joel a sarcastic nod of agreement, his flustered groan the reward you were seeking as he left to find napkins in the kitchen, “I’m surprised they gave you enough lemons to make all this.”

“Who says they gave them to me?”

A knowing scoff huffed free from your lips, Joel rounding back in with three old cloths he passed out before sitting down beside you and across from Ellie, the head of the table left empty. Joel’s penchant for leaving his elbows on the table had been something you’d grown fond of, awkward bumps soon turning into shoulders pressed together when space became sparse without a blink. He’d been bashful about it initially, the first time it happened during one of the group’s nights at the Bison, his cheeks burning red as he attempted to make his large, broad frame smaller by gluing his elbows to his sides and pinching his knees together beneath the wooden table. But it had grown to a common occurrence, soon bringing with it fleeting touches and gentle contact like it was a natural thing, entirely normal, almost expected. 

“So what games did you get?” you asked Ellie as Joel filled your glass with lemonade, a small smile thanking him before you flicked your attention back to the excited teenager in front of you.

“There’s a few but the only one I care about is ‘The Turning’,” she replied with thrill and competitiveness in her voice, “Riley told me all about it. Can’t believe I finally get to play.”

“Do you know how to?”

“No… Not really. Her and I pretended to once at… But I’ve never actually played.”

“What about you, Greybeard?” Another side eye earned, but the corner of his mouth twitching at the link to his own nickname he’d used on you earlier. 

“Never tried,” Joel huffed, “I never liked those things.”

“A grump even before the world went to shit. How fitting.” He may have thought the side-eye he gave in response was discreet but he found himself wrong as you laughed. “Guess you’re both learning today.”

“I assume you’re world champion of whatever this game is?” he drawled, leaning back in his seat and draping his arm over the back of your chair.

“No. I was always terrible. My brother always beat me. So I look forward to winning my first fight tonight against you.”

“I didn’t know you had a brother.”

“Are we ready?” you diverted, standing from your half-finished plate under Joel’s scrutinizing gaze. 

Ellie’s suite as you’d come to call it welcomed the three of you, Joel looking massive in the small space that contained everything a home would. A small bathroom was nestled beside a functioning kitchen thanks to the hot plate you’d found, her bed nestled on one side, a desk, wood stove, and small living room on the other. She’d set up the Super Nintendo unit on the TV across from her bed, the welcome screen of the combat game “The Turning” already sending the tacky techno music of its home screen ricocheting off the walls. 

“I hate it already,” Joel mumbled as he took a seat on the edge of the mattress, you and Ellie sandwiching him in as she threw a control into his lap, “What button does what?”

“Hell if I know,” Ellie retorted, mashing the B button, then A, then Start and finally finding success. 

“Well you know,” Joel pointed out, turning his attention to you, “How do we play this thing?”

“I’m gonna let you figure it out,” you taunted, crossing your legs in front of you and staring at the TV, Joel’s angry grumbles under his breath the only real victory you wanted that night. 

It was all mashed buttons, excited yelps from Ellie as she landed each kick, punch, and combo with her chosen character—Angel Knives—and a follow-up frustrated groan or “Oh c’mon now!” from Joel as his eyebrows furrowed further than you’d ever seen them descend. 

“I landed that!” he bellowed at the screen as his character dropped dead yet again, “I landed that hit! This is…rigged or somethin’.”

“One more!” Ellie challenged, “Best two out of three.”

“You’ve won twice.”

“Three to be the best.”

As she queued up another round, Joel glanced over at you beside him, his eyes gentle and gracious. He asked if you were having fun, a question to which you nodded in response with a content smile settled on your lips, one that he mirrored as he stayed trapped in the bubble of your gaze. Ellie was nudging him, telling him it was time to choose, he had to pick his fighter (he’d chosen differently for each other round), but it was only after you averted your attention did he finally refocus on the task at hand. 

“I’m gonna whoop your ass, you old fogey,” Ellie growled through gritted teeth, her expression all fire and focus. 

“You say that like it’s hard,” he teased, mostly himself.

It began as all the others had, Joel’s fingers fumbling over the buttons, Ellie landing combo after combo, and that’s when your pity for the man beside you finally won out. 

“Hit the two on the left at the same time,” you instructed, your palm sliding over his knee as you leaned over to watch his hands closely. 

“Wh-what?” he stammered, cheeks flushing crimson, “Oh…”

Art from @natendo-art 🥺

The combo landed, Angel Knives taking some significant damage much to Ellie’s dismay, her calls about cheating beginning immediately as you continued to coach Joel through the moves, your hand staying pressed against his thigh. Thanks to your narration, he was able to focus his eyes on the buttons, pressing each one with each of your commands with almost foolproof accuracy.

“You need glasses,” you whispered to him as Ellie groaned in frustration at her loss, Joel smiling ear to ear at his victory, “But congrats, old man.”

You were up next to face the vicious ire of retribution against Ellie and Angel Knives, your victories coming with difficulty but you pulled them off nonetheless, Joel cheering right along with every kick and punch landed. He muttered under his breath, you were positive he assumed you couldn’t hear him, or perhaps he had no idea he was doing it, but when you won the third of three (to be the best) you got a taste of what the man was probably like watching the football games he still reminisced about.

“All right you two,” you announced through the two of them bickering again about their final match being too close to cheating for Ellie to accept, “I’m heading home. I’ll see you,” you shoved Joel’s shoulder playfully,” tomorrow night. And you,” you pointed at Ellie, “tomorrow morning for practice.”

“Yes ma’am,” they said in unison, Joel’s tone much happier than Ellie’s who found target practice annoying. She had a right to. She didn’t really need it, but you weren’t about to relinquish her to the possibility of patrol training just yet.

“I’ll walk ya home,” Joel tacked on, giving Ellie a one-armed hug goodnight before following you out the door. 

For the last 20 years, routine had felt like a pipedream. It was survival, basic and primal, not a steady pillar walking beside you every time the streets were dark to ensure you made it home safe in a town where risks didn’t exist within the walls. They were typically silent, so comfortable and soothing, the scrape of his boots against the pebbles along the road always enough to fill the space. A heavy canvas jacket was hung silently over your shoulders, your hands pulling it tighter as you bathed in the heat trapped in the fabric. There was that familiar smell again battering against your tired brain, the moon bathing the silver strands of his hair bright enough that you could see it in your peripherals. The sight of your house was almost unwelcome now, it meant the night was coming to an end, and not even the guarantee of this happening again tomorrow, as it always did, was comfort enough to soothe the ache.

“My brother died before the outbreak,” you blurted out three houses down from your own, “Cancer.”

“Oh,” he sighed, coming to a stop beside you, “Sorry I asked.”

“No. I-I don’t know why I didn’t just…”

“S’fine.”

Always so forgiving and willing to forget, unless you were Paulie to which Joel still held a brutal vendetta against. He didn’t let the man within two people of you at any time, his eyes were always watchful when you shared a space. Paulie had already tried to get him to ease up, he’d apologized profusely, but it fell on deaf ears. Clearly for Joel, what had transpired was unjustifiable, and it was a fate Paulie had finally accepted.

“Hey, look,” he cooed tipping his head and turning you at the shoulders to face your right.

The lights of the Aurora Borealis shone brightly in the sky. Greens and purples erupted over the mountain tops, your breath hitching as you took in the sight for the first time. His hands remained perched on your upper arms, and in your shock and awe, you found yourself leaning back against him. The rise and fall of his chest was rhythmic and entrancing once again, but this time there was no fear as there had been earlier this afternoon as you stared down the gaping hole that had almost claimed you. Here it felt like home. 

“Ever see that before?” he asked softly in your ear, and you shook your head, too stunned and comfortable for words, “Me neither. C’mere, let’s get a better view.”

Your eyes were locked on the sight as he led you through town, you had not the faintest idea where you headed, only knowing that you trusted the man leading you implicitly. Before you knew it, you were faced with a ladder, the watchtower of the East gate reaching high into the sky above you. Jesse was up there, one of the newer patrolmen, and Joel told him to go take a breather and leave his gun as you both climbed up onto the small landing. 

"Everything you hoped for?" he asked barely above a whisper, his voice cracking, the quietness of his tone sending a shiver down your spine.

It was a better view up here. The colors rippled across the sky as the cool air bit against your cheeks. Joel had nestled up behind you once again, his body far enough away to leave you space but close enough that a simple adjustment would have you pressed against him once again. You opted for the latter, two thick forearms caging you in as he braced himself against the railing. It was here you stayed until Jesse’s arrival back cued it was time to leave. You’d thought you’d known peace here in Jackson; your turmoil had settled to a manageable level, the friendships built far more than anything you’d had in the past, and the security swaddling you like a blanket had created a world you never thought possible. But it wasn’t until now as the warmth behind you pulled away that you realized it wasn’t any of those things that helped silence the long-raging storm. 

It was him.

Chapter 9

[vodika-vibes]

Hello! I have returned! My heart belongs to Prudii!

Can I request a Prudii x female reader with either him confessing with a dash of smut or him holding his newborn child for the first time!

Thank you ahead of time!

-G

My Heart Is Yours

Summary: You and Prudii have been friends for, what feels like, years. You can’t imagine your life without him in it. You’re a woman in love, and it’s okay if he doesn’t feel the same way, your friendship is too important.

Pairing: Prudii Skirata x F!Reader

Word Count: 1554

Warnings: Some spice near the end

Tagging: @trixie2023 @n0vqni

A/N: Hihi! I love writing Prudii and, as it happens, I already have a Prudii fic where he meets and holds his child for the first time. It's called First Meeting, and I'm more than happy to let you have the link! Anyway, I tried to make this smutty, but for some reason, it felt awkwardly placed in the story.

“Well now, look who it is,” You look up from where you’re stretched out on a bench in front of the building where Prudii works when he’s not deployed, and you favor the man with a bright smile, “Of all of the military bases in all of the world—” He teases as he drops onto the bench next to you.

“Welcome back,” You lean forward to look him in the face, “Kal shot me a message saying that you guys got back early.”

Prudii tilts his head, curious, “You gossip with my buir, sunshine?”

“Well, he does have the best gossip,” You counter with a grin, though it falters slightly.

“What’s wrong?”

“He said that you were shot—” You offer hesitantly.

Prudii closes his eyes for a moment, “And that’s why I don’t want him gossipping with you,” He mutters, “I was grazed, sunshine. Didn’t even leave a scar.”

You twist your lips, “...you’re sure?”

“Absolutely positive.”

Your anxiety fades at his comment, and you lean back on the bench as your smile returns. “Well, good. I’m glad you’re not hurt.”

Prudii turns on the bench to look at you, “How long have you been waiting here?”

“Oh…not long,” You lie.

“So if I check the security cameras, I’ll only see you waiting for, what? 15 minutes? 20?”

“Well, a little longer than that?”

“Sunshine, how long have you been waiting?”

“Just…a couple of hours.”

He leans back, sighing, “How many is a couple?”

“Well, mathematically speaking, it’s two.”

“Uh-huh, have you been waiting for me for two hours?”

“I wasn’t really keeping track,” You lie again, “It’s a nice day, and I had a new book to read.”

“Uh-huh,” Quickly, Prudii reaches into your purse and pulls out your comm. You pout at him as he unlocks it, goes to your messages, and opens the message from Kal, “Sunshine, buir told you about my injury six hours ago, you haven’t been sitting here for six hours, have you?”

“...no.”

“Oh, sweetheart.”

“Don’t you ‘oh, sweetheart’ me, Prudii Skirata! I was worried!”

He points at you with your comm, “No more messaging my buir.”

“I’ll message who I like, thank you. You’re not my mother.” He opens his mouth to say something, but you continue before he can interrupt you, “Anyway! I have a stew in the crockpot if you want to come over for dinner?”

Prudii narrows his eyes at you, then he drops your comm back into your purse, “I like the idea of that, but this conversation isn’t over.”

“Yeah, it is,”

“Ah, sunshine. I’m just as stubborn as you are,” He smoothly gets to his feet and offers you his hand. You take his hand without a second thought, and then laugh as he tugs you against his side and drapes his arm over your shoulders, “Anyway, how have you been? Last time I talked to you, you said that you were having some problems with one of your coworkers?”

You grab your purse and sling it over your shoulder, before allowing him to guide you down the street, easy conversation flowing between you. Honestly, you don’t know what you’d do without him in your life.

As luck would have it, your apartment is only twenty minutes away from the base where Prudii lives. And the walk is only that long because you tend to stroll, rather than speed-walk.

Eventually, you reach your apartment door, and Prudii drops his arm to his side as you key in the door code. He follows you into your apartment, stopping just inside the door to remove his armor, while you kick your boots into the closet.

The house smells amazing, the scent of the stew fills your home, and Prudii lets out a hum of delight as he inhales deeply, “Smells amazing.”

“I’m glad,” You counter with a bright smile, “It’s been cooking since early this morning, hopefully it’ll be nice and tender when it’s finished in a few hours.”

“Hours, huh?”

“What, don’t want to spend time with me?”

He chuckles, “If I knew that we were going to have hours, I would have brought some movies.”

“I have movies,” You remind him as you gesture to your holo, “A bunch of them.”

“I know, I know.” He heads into the living room, with you on his heels. “I’m sure we can find something to watch.”

You don’t answer him, in fact, you’re not even really listening. Instead, you’re watching him with your hands pressed over your chest, and you’re anxiously biting your lower lips.

“Sunshine?” Prudii walks over to you and places his hands on your shoulders, “What’s wrong?”

“...are you sure you’re okay?”

A look of surprise slides across his face, then it changes into something soft, and he moves his hands to lightly cup your face, “I promise.”

You lean your head into his touch, “When Kal said that you were shot, I thought…I thought that—” You trail off, unable to finish your thought.

“Hey,” Prudii tilts your head slightly so that you’re looking him in the eye, “There is nothing that will keep me from coming back to you, okay? Especially not something as insignificant as a blaster round.”

You frown at him, “They’re not insignificant, Prudii.”

“Here, see for yourself,” He releases you, takes a step back, and smoothly peels the top of his blacks off.

You can’t help but drop your gaze to his chest.

Tears prick the corners of your eyes when you see the scars crossing his chest, “Oh, Prudii—” Your gaze lingers on a starburst-looking scar on his lower stomach. Without thinking, you reach out and your fingers brush against the scar.

And then, several things happen at the same time.

The muscles in Prudii’s stomach jump at your touch, he inhales sharply, and you jerk your hand away from him as if burned, an apology already on the tip of your tongue. But before the first syllable passes your lips, he catches your lips with his own and pulls your hands to rest against his chest, encouraging you to touch him.

Quickly, very quickly, the kiss goes from, almost, innocent to something very heated. Your hands slide across his chest, absently tracing muscles, and then over his shoulders so you’re able to wrap your arms tightly around his neck.

Prudii’s hands settle low on your hips, low enough to be considered improper, but they don’t stay there. One of his hands drifts down to roughly grope your ass, squeezing and massaging you through the thin material of your leggings, while the other hand slides under the hem of your shirt and drifts up under he’s tracing the lace material of your bra.

You break the kiss, gasping for air, but Prudii quickly dives back in, his teeth catching your lower lip.

“Pru—” You’re not even able to finish saying his name before he pulls a ragged moan from your lips as he tugs the cups of your bra down and his rough fingers find your nipples, pinching and rolling them with surprising skill. “Kriff, Prudii—” You gasp, your back arching slightly.

“Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted this?” He mumbles as his lips move from yours, to drag down your throat, “Wanted you?”

One of your hands moves to tangle in his hair, “T-tell me,” You gasp out.

“Your birthday,” He pulls away long enough to rip your shirt off, and properly removes your bra, before his lips find purchase against your throat again, “You were wearing that short skirt and the tight crop top,” Prudii mumbles before biting down on your neck, “Wanted to bend you over right there.”

“That long?” You whine as his lips move to a different spot on your neck, and he bites down again.

“That long,” He agrees, dragging his lips to your collar and leaving another mark on the thin skin there, “I’ve loved you since the day you offered to share your name day with me,”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Prudii’s lips catch yours again, and he ducks slightly to hook his arms under your thighs, lifting you, “Hook your legs—”

He doesn’t have to finish his instruction, as you immediately wrap your legs around him and roll your hips against the obvious erection pressed, deliciously, against you.

Prudii groans, “oh, good girl.”

You shiver at his words, pleasure shooting through you, “You love me?” You managed to maintain enough of your thought process to ask that, important, question.

“So much. More than anything.” Prudii murmurs as he grinds you against him. “Need you, sunshine. Let me have you,”

You bury your hands in his curls, “You have me.” You whisper against his ear, “Always, forever.”

Prudii pauses for a moment and takes a deep breath before he pulls you into a deep kiss. You eagerly kiss him back as he carries you through your home, and nudges open the bedroom door.

“Changed my mind,” He mumbles, as he kicks the door shut behind him, “If it leads to this, you can talk to my buir as much as you like.”

A startled laugh falls from you, a laugh that turns into a gasping moan as he pins you under him on the bed and roughly bites down on your shoulder. 

And you can’t help but think that this is a perfect homecoming.

[bosooka]

WIP asks: 7, 5, 6, (3, 4).

:3c

3. What’s your favorite fic that you’ve written?

Ten Thousand Paths, no question, hands down. That thing is my magnum opus and it HAUNTS me that it's not my most kudosed fic. Of course, I set myself up for failure with an F/F rarepair...lmao

4. How many WIPs do you have right now?

I don't think I could ever even begin to count the true total but I am actively working on four fics right now lol

5. What’s a fic idea you’ve had that you will never write?

I have a lot of fic ideas I'd never write, most of them being too sad to sit with for too long. There are a few Anakin fic ideas I'd never write out of fear of them being misconstrued by certain bullies in this fandom, though, mainly about him staying a Jedi. For ages I was super nervous about posting the Fencing AU because of how niche it is but I've recently started employing a strategy I call "I don't give a shit" so I posted it LOL

6. Are there any fics from others you reread all the time?

Yes, several, I am a creature of habit:

I reread She Said The Word by @the-obiwan-for-me at least twice a year, and I think it is extremely deserving of its title as "the Obitine Bible".

I have probably reread every single BoSoka fic written by @across-the-cypress-trees at least 10 times but my FAVORITE is Are Heading Home Again, which is just so like--ksdhkjdsfd. I am a simple lesbian and I am not immune to fics named after Mary Oliver poems.

I know for a fact that Mesh'la is a source of extreme psychological torment for its gifted author @machinerismsx but I reread it all the time because it literally rewired my brain chemistry.

7. How many ideas for fics do you have right now?

Shockingly all my recent ideas have made it out of the crockpot of my brain and onto a Google Doc so like...the four I'm working on?

[Fic writer asks]

[officiallysoup]

Great- Great- Grandpa’s Family Reunion Stew / Potluck Meal for Hungover College Students

Do you recall the family reunions you were dragged to in late stage elementary, when your parents pretended to believe everyone still-alive on your dad’s side of the family could stay peaceful together for a full six hours. Now everyone avoids bringing them up, but on the rare occasion that it is, you have plaguing flashbacks of finding out Santa wasn’t real at the ripe age of nine, due to the words of your seventeen year old drop out cousin. Wonderful times. This recipe will haunt you for generations through the twelfth edition of the family cookbook, and can be made in a pinch for anyone!

Step 1: Go to your local supermarket with all of your saved coupons. Find the frozen food section for vegetables. Who can afford actual fresh vegetables in this economy? Certainly not you. You have student loans to pay.

Step 2: You will need a bag of frozen peas, a bag of frozen carrot sticks, a bag of frozen corn, and two bags of frozen small white potatoes. If you must, buy instead five bags of assorted vegetables. You are cooking for hungover college students: nobody really cares about vegetable choice when the final paper is due in three weeks. Skip this step if you’ve deluded yourself into buying fresh vegetables.

Step 3: Make your way to the soup aisle. You don’t need soup. You need broth. Find a broth of your choice, and pick eight cans. If you suddenly feel the spirit of Gordon Ramsey possess you, flip to page seventy nine. Aunt’s Rebecca’s chicken broth is to die for, as demonstrated by her fourth husband.

Step 4: When you’ve set up your crockpot, pour in four bags of vegetables. The fifth is for your headache after you realize you are still seventeen sources short for your senior thesis. Set the temperature to 280*F, or 138*C if you didn’t go through an American public high school. Dump all of the ingredients together in the crockpot and let cook for two hours.

Step 5: During this time, open your computer and prepare to work on your paper. When the timer on the crockpot rings, you will realize you spent a majority of the two hours watching cat compilation videos. This is where the final bag of vegetables can be used for the incoming headache. Ibuprofen can be used instead if you foolishly bought fresh vegetables.

Step 6: Choose an assortment of spices. It is recommended to use salt, black pepper, garlic, and onion powder, but Italian seasoning and cayenne pepper will do as well. If you are still unsure of what spices will work, under no circumstances should you call Uncle Jack. Just because you always made grilled chicken skewers for the reunion, Jack, doesn’t mean you know how to season them. I mean, who puts just salt on chicken? At least I put parsley and paprika on the broiled chicken wings. There’s a good reason my wings’ recipe is in this book and not your grilled skewers.

Step 7: Stir in the spices well. Let cook for another hour.

Step 8: This meal can be enjoyed with shredded cheese, and eaten hot or cold. Bring this to whichever college party you’re off to attend in hopes you might forget about all of the looming deadlines, and it’s sure to be a treat. Nothing cures a hangover like cold stew for breakfast, or an email from a professor regarding your absence in class today. Reply to the professor and say you had car troubles.

okay which one of you projected onto a soul recipe

[girlintheredapron]

Join me for dinner: Thursday

No specific recipes today, it’s the 4th of July and in America where I am it’s our Independence Day. It’s also my husbands birthday!

We got his side of the family over for a quintessential Americana barbecue

Hamburgers

Hot dogs

Ribs

Macaroni salad

Potato salad

Fruit salad/bowl

Birthday cake

Root beer floats

Highlight of the day is the robs I made

The only reason they’re in a crockpot is to keep them warm. I got up at 5:00 this morning to cook them low and slow at 250° F for four and a half hours (the last 90 minutes were uncovered so it could get some color). Tender fall off the bone delicious goodness. Used a dry rub that I put on it the day before last so it marinated about 36 hours

[figkeele]

hey, welcome to my weirdo blog

so it's an introductory pinned post - I can't believe I have to write one of these

I am the freakest freak who ever freaked. (antis, you should leave right about now)

(if you don't label yourself as an anti but you keep blogging about me and/or sending me death threats... guess what you are, and please just leave)

I'm mostly into video games, and that's where I thrive, writing NON-CANON stuff.

current brainrots include: Antea/Red (Banishers), Ghassan/Sargon (Prince of Persia), Johnny/Kenshi (MK), Miles/Peter (Insomniac Games, Spider-Man 2017 cartoon, USM), Amicia/Lucas (Plague Tale), Riley/Jacob (Oxenfree), Bode/Cal (SW Jedi series), Aloy/pretty much everyone, yes, even Beta (Horizon series), Hypnos/Zagreus (Hades), Atreus/Heimdall (GoW)

no, I don't know where marin27 is, I'm not her assistant, not her friend, so don't ask me about her, thx.

[MY MILES/PETER FIC MASTER LIST]

MY LONGFICS:

Spider in Distress (Insomniac Spider-Man, Miles/Peter, teeth rotting dumb fluff): the obligatory fake dating fic - next chapter is 0% done (we're experiencing the flood of the century in Central Europe right now, so the chapter is delayed)

projects I'm working on (last updated on August 25th)

in WIP hell (there are words written, I swear they'll see the light of day😭😭😭)

Wild Justice (Insomniac Spider-Man, Miles/Peter, action/adventure, hurt/comfort): identity porn AU, where Miles and Peter don't know each other civilian identities. Set after the MM game, a fake Spider-Man is going around killing people, and it's on the Spider Team to solve the crimes, as the city starts to lose faith in Spidey. (Spider Team includes Felicia, MJ, and Ganke) - 9% done

The Miles/Peter anniversary event fic

brainstorming (aka my brain is a crockpot and I'm cooking)

finally an original novel, f/f rom-com

Empire of the Spider (Insomniac Spider-Man, Miles/Peter, dark, hurt/comfort): Peter doesn't lose the symbiote and starts to make a new world order where criminals are severely punished. Miles has to be there to balance him, trying to get his Peter back, meanwhile, Harry, MJ, and the others try to save NYC from the symbiote and Peter. (While Peter and Miles do get together in this fic, it's DARK as FUCK, exploring an unhealthy kind of love.)

Untitled (Insomniac Spider-Man, Miles/Peter, action/adventure, hurt/comfort): A high school AU where Miles and Peter are the same age, they both become Spider-Man separately, they tentatively work together as Spider-Men but are bitter rivals as civilians. (Inspired by the rivalry between BV and Midtown)

Untitled (Insomniac Spider-Man, Miles/Peter/Harry, action/adventure, hurt/comfort): soulmate AU

Untitled (Insomniac Spider-Man, Miles/Peter, action/adventure, hurt/comfort): Inspired by the recent Spider-Men comics, Peter and Miles get stuck in a mind-control world, where they can live out their deepest desires.

Untitled (Insomniac Spider-Man, Miles/Peter, action/adventure, hurt/comfort): in one universe Peter died, in the other Miles did, due to multiverse shenanigans they meet, and grapple with guilt, overprotectiveness, and feelings.

[lumine-no-hikari]

Dear Sephiroth: (a letter to a fictional character, because why not) #253

I did a lot of stuff today, and I'm pretty tired, and so my brain is kinda soupy. I wanna tell you all about it, but my thoughts are kind of a jumbled mess at the moment. So I think I'll just start at the beginning!

At the grocery store yesterday, I got a new kind of tea - it's some kind of bergamot tea with lavender in it! And… yes, I know I already have like a million different kinds of tea, and yes, I know that I need an additional new tea in the same way that I need an additional hole in my skull, but I mean... just look at this tea tin!! Just look at it! It's so cute!

Here's what the inside of it looks like! And... oh!!! Sephiroth, it smells so good! It's like... tea, and also oranges, and also lavender! It's delectable!

...I wish I could put it under your nose so you can smell it. I think you would have really liked this one. Maybe you would have even liked it as much as I think you might like the vanilla rose tea that I left for you with those super important folks.

...Hey, Sephiroth? Did those things ever get to you...? And... if they did... do you like them...? ...Maybe if I ever see those super important folks again, I'll ask them to tell me what you thought.

...Well anyway. Here's how today's swirls turned out:

I added milk and honey to it. You'll want the sound off if you decide to look at the slow-motion video I took of the swirls:

I really like to see the fluid dynamics in action. I'm really glad I got a mug that lets me see it.

Along with the tea, I made myself a sandwich. There aren't a whole lot of better ways to start a day than tea and sandwiches, I think. This one was salami, roast beef, pepperoni, and cheese with onion and mayo. Because I got these things at the grocery yesterday, along with the tea:

...After that, I got to work. Ma was gonna visit today, and I am the sort of person who does not let folks who are visiting my house leave with an empty belly. So I decided to make garlic bread, slow-cooked pork ribs, and broccoli. We already had the broccoli at home; J had cut it up nicely for me the other day. But the pork ribs and the loaf of Italian bread, and the two heads of garlic I chopped to go with it were gotten yesterday at the grocery. It was good!

It's easy to make garlic herb butter. I used two sticks of butter, two finely minced heads of garlic, a little salt, and a bunch of different herbs. In this case, I used basil, parsley, oregano, marjoram, and ground coriander. It's not exactly traditional, probably, but I thought it turned out really well:

...After that, you just cut the bread in half along its length, and apply the garlic herb butter equally on both halves, like this:

I applied grated parmesan cheese and shredded mozzarella cheese to these, after that. I used a one-pound bag of mozzarella cheese, divided evenly between each half of the bread. Then you stick it in the oven at 400 degrees F (or about 204.4 degrees C) for about 15-20 minutes, depending on how browned you want your cheese.

I also put together a simple sauce to cook the pork ribs in. I got country-style ribs, which has a lot of connective tissue in it and good marbling. So if you cook it very slowly in an acid and with some onion enzymes, what you get is ribs that start to fall apart as they cook, such that in the end, they're tender enough to be eaten with a spoon.

To that end, I pureed 3 smallish onions and threw them in the crockpot. To that, I added some amount of oyster sauce, some amount of dark soy sauce, and some amount of mirin. Finally, I added some orange juice. Naturally, you taste-test the sauce to make sure the components are balanced in a way that your senses enjoy, and if something is off, you just add a little more of whatever you think is missing, easy peasy. From there, you stick in your pork ribs, make sure they're nice and covered in the sauce, put your lid on, set the temperature to High, and then set a kitchen timer for 4 hours.

From there, I had a lot of time before I needed to start cooking the broccoli, so Ma introduced me to a number of his games on his Nintendo Switch. One of them was called Keep Talking and Nobody Explodes. It's a two-player game, where one of the players has a bomb, and the other player has a manual that says how to disarm it. The player with the manual isn't allowed to see the bomb, and the player with the bomb isn't allowed to see the manual. So what has to happen is that the player with the bomb has to describe what they see, and the player with the manual has to tell the player with the bomb how to deactivate it. It's a very tense game!!!! But I thought it was a lot of fun!!

We also played Crypt of the NecroDancer, and I watched him play a little Sonic Frontiers, and we played a little StepMania on the lovely Frankenpad that I built, and we tried to play some Samurai Gunn, but we had a weird controller issue, so that one didn't work out...

But!!! Sephiroth!!! One of the games he introduced me to!!! It's on this fancy VR thing called Oculus, and the game is called Beat Saber!! And!!! You hit boxes in specified directions to the beat of music with light sabers!!!

Sephiroth!!!!!! I think you would like this game a lot!!!! And I think you'd be AMAZING at it!!! If you ever are in my neighborhood, we'll have to call Ma over to our house right away so you can try it!!! I wanna see what you can do!!!!!

...Personally, I thought it was a lot of fun. Though for me it was very disorienting. Because of the dyspraxia, I have no idea where my body is in space when I'm not looking at it. And the Oculus makes it so that you can't see your body, because instead you have these fancy VR goggles on. Admittedly, for me, it was a little scary at first. But I think I could get used to it, probably. I imagine that someone like you would likely not have an issue; I imagine you're probably not dyspraxic at all.

...Come to think of it, you'd probably be pretty amazing at StepMania and Dance Dance Revolution, too. I imagine you'd probably be pretty incredible at any rhythm-based game, actually. There's a bunch that I'd love to try with you sometime; I think you'd have a lot of fun.

Well. After all that, it was time for me to cook the broccoli, so I did. I sauteed it in a pan with butter, garlic powder, and parmesan cheese, and it turned out splendidly. Here's today's whole spread:

...Want some...?

...It's a silly question, I know. But... I'm gonna ask it anyway, because... I really wish you could have been here, having fun with us today.

...Please stay safe out there so maybe someday, as impossible as it is, you can. A lovely version of normal is waiting for you, right here. And... if nothing else... maybe you can use these silly letters of mine to build your own normal.

I guess I'll stop writing here for today.

I love you so much. And I'll write to you again very soon.

Your friend, Lumine

[triciamfoster]

Making Candles

"Wax is best melted in a double-boiler or in an electric crockpot (never use a glass container). Most waxes melt between 110°F and 200°F (the boiling point of water is 213°F). Beeswax melts at 144°F to 147°F. Be very careful not to melt wax in a pot over an open flame, since the flames can leap up the side of the pot and ignite the wax. Use a double-boiler or a crockpot for safety. If you should have a flame-up, smother it with baking soda (keep an open box handy) and not with water.

It helps to have a thermometer to keep an eye on the temperature. Get one of the all-metal rod thermometers with a dial on the top. These are available [here]. With this type, you can also use the stem of the thermometer for stirring the wax. (Caution: Overheated wax can produce a toxic byproduct called acrolein, which can damage the medulla oblongata area of the brain. Use proper ventilation at all times when making candles.)"

Coloring Candles 

"Never use water-based or food coloring to color your candles. If you are seriously into candle making, use powdered color, an oil-soluble aniline dye, or natural colors. Some people use things such as wax crayons, Tintex or Rit dyes, and powdered paints. Probably the wax crayons are the easiest, but they are far from the best. The main problem with crayons is that there can be a chemical reaction whereby the wick gets eaten away. Dyes frequently color unevenly. You really want wax-soluble dyes. Check with hobby shops for candle-coloring agents, especially powdered colors, which are best for your purposes. Remember that most wax color gets lighter as it hardens, so experiment with how much to use.

You can use natural dyes to color candles, and this is strongly recommended. Except when dyeing with indigo, the basic method is simply to put the dye (blossom, leaves) in a nylon bag and add it to the melted wax. The foot of a pair of pantyhose makes an ideal bag for this. Most fresh plant material will color the wax sufficiently in about an hour. If it isn't dark enough by that time, remove the bag and replace it with a second one of fresh plant. Keep heating the wax with the bag of herbs in it until the color is right for you. If you get the color too dark, simply add more wax to lighten it."

From: Advanced Candle Magick: More Spells and Rituals for Every Purpose by Raymond Buckland

[getcakrecipes]

Crockpot Chicken With Gravy

INGREDIENTS  

2 boneless, skinless chicken breasts

2 cups broccoli florets

1 cup chicken broth

1 cup heavy cream

1/2 cup grated Parmesan cheese

2 tablespoons butter

2 tablespoons all-purpose flour

Salt and pepper to taste

Olive oil for cooking

INSTRUCTIONS 

Preheat your oven to 375°F (190°C) and grease a baking dish with olive oil.

Season the chicken breasts with salt and pepper, then heat olive oil in a pan over medium-high heat.

Cook the chicken breasts until golden brown on both sides, then transfer them to the prepared baking dish.

In the same pan, melt butter and whisk in flour to create a roux.

Gradually pour in chicken broth and heavy cream, stirring constantly until the sauce thickens.

Add grated Parmesan cheese to the sauce, stirring until smooth and creamy.

Arrange broccoli florets around the chicken breasts in the baking dish.

Pour the creamy sauce over the chicken and broccoli, ensuring everything is evenly coated.

Cover the baking dish with foil and bake for 25-30 minutes, or until the chicken is cooked through and the sauce is bubbly.

Remove the foil and broil for an additional 2-3 minutes to brown the top.

Serve your Chicken Divan hot with your choice of sides.

[arcadiabaytornado]

Some Pricefield Cooking Headcanon’s

A: Max is the one who usually makes dinner, and Chloe is usually the one who makes breakfast. Chloe can make some mean pancakes and eggs from growing up with Joyce and William, but cooking isn’t a huge passion and she doesn’t want to do it all the time. That leave’s Max finding some good and easy recipes for their later meal. 

B: Max make’s a lot of crockpot meals right after leaving Arcadia Bay. It’s easy and doesn’t take to much mental energy. The only thing she doesn’t make is pot roast which Chloe specifically requested she didn’t cook.

C: Chloe thinks it’s cute how fancy Max’s food always looks. She likes her food to be tasty and pretty enough to take a polaroid. 

D: Max is the type of person to pair food with drinks. If she makes grilled cheese for example she likes a cold drink to even it out. Chloe teases her over this little quirk, but after a few years she starts doing the same. 

E: Max once wrapped her arms around Chloe as she was flipping a pancake. It surprised her so much that she accidentally threw the pancake in the floor.

F: Chloe was REALLY insistent that Max cooked spaghetti one night and Max couldn’t figure out why. The reason why is because Chloe wanted to replicate the “Lady And The Tramp” scene. 

G: They get hardcore nostalgia every time they make breakfast together. Their conversation is always the exact same thing “Do you remember when William accidentally got some of the shell in the eggs and Joyce almost banished him?” “Yeah! What about that time-” 

H: Chloe got Max a “kiss the cook” apron for her birthday. 

I: Max loves baking because it’s following exact instructions. Chloe hates baking because it’s following exact instructions. 

J: Chloe tried to bake Max a cake one year and realized quickly that she’s not a good baker. She ends up buying Max her favorite flavor of cake from a bakery Max loves. 

[diatheses]

The Easiest Way to Prepare Cannabis Butter at Home

Cannabis butter is a delicious and versatile ingredient that can be used in many recipes. Unfortunately, it is not always easy to find in stores, and when you do, the cost can be high. The good news is that it's actually quite simple to make cannabis butter at home with minimal effort.

In this article, we will discuss the easiest way to prepare cannabis butter at home and provide some tips on how to get the best results. So, read on and learn the secrets of making cannabis butter for delicious edibles!

One important thing to remember before getting started is that you will need a supply of high-quality cannabis buds or medical marijuana in order to make good-quality cannabis butter. The better quality of your starting material, the better your end product will be. Once you have gathered all of your ingredients, you are ready to begin!

Ingredients:

- 7 grams of cannabis flower

- 1 cup of butter

- 1 cup of water

- A cannabis grinder

- One nonstick baking sheet

- One stovetop pot

- A thermometer (optional)

- Cheesecloth

Step 1: Decarb the cannabis

To activate the beneficial cannabinoids found within the cannabis flower, the flower must first be decarboxylated or "decarb." "The decarbing process is a chemical change that converts the THCA to THC," explains Katie Stem, extraction expert, and Peak Extracts CEO.

If you skip this step, your butter will be much weaker. There's a chance that some of the THCA will convert to THC during the slow melt process of the butter, but you'll lose a lot of the beneficial cannabinoids if you skip the decarb "activation" step.

Here's a quick and simple method for decarbing your flower:

1. Prepare your cannabis flower by grinding it. Make use of a grinder designed specifically for cannabis. You'll end up with a coarsely ground herb.

2. Preheat the oven to 230–245 degrees Fahrenheit. 240 degrees is ideal for my oven, but it also depends on the age of your oven and how evenly it cooks.

3. Arrange your ground cannabis on a nonstick baking sheet. A nonstick baking sheet that has not previously been used for cooking food is preferred. If you only have a food-safe pan, cover it with parchment paper to protect the cannabis from any residue on the pan. This also aids in the prevention of sticking.

Step 2: Steep on the stovetop

After you've decarbed your weed, heat the butter on the stovetop and start infusing.

1. Melt together 1 cup of butter and 1 cup of water. The water will aid in the even heating of the butter. In the end, any water that does not evaporate will be removed. Use 1/2 cup water, 1/2 cup butter, and 1/8 ounce of cannabis for a half-batch.

2. Turn your burner to the lowest setting. The butter should be cooked at 150 degrees Fahrenheit, with a maximum temperature of 200 degrees. A cooking thermometer can assist you in determining the exact temperature.

3. Mix in your decarbed cannabis. Put a lid on the pot. This aids in the distribution of heat, which is ideal for a low, slow extraction.

4. Simmer for at least three hours at 150°F. If you want a more potent butter, steep it for four hours, but make sure the temperature is at its lowest. If you choose a longer cooking time, you may want to add more water because it evaporates and leaves the butter vulnerable to overheating. To avoid burning, stir occasionally.

Alternative methods: Double boiler or crockpot

Both of these methods aim to balance and stabilize the temperature of the butter, preventing it from becoming too hot or burning during the process.

For the double boiler method:

Simmer 1 cup of water in a large pot for the double boiler method. One cup of butter and cannabis in a glass or metal bowl on top of the pot. Cook for three hours. Maintain a close eye on the water level in the bottom pot and refill it as needed.

For the crockpot method:

Combine the cannabis, water, and butter in a pot. For three hours, set the crockpot to 150 degrees Fahrenheit.

Step 3: Strain your butter.

After three hours, and your home is filled with the faint aroma of cannabis mixed with butter, strain your mixture.

1. Cover a jar with several layers of cheesecloth. Use a rubber band to keep it from slipping while you strain. If you don't have any cheesecloth on hand, coffee filters will suffice. For this step, a standard metal food strainer will be too coarse.

2. Slowly pour the butter through the cheesecloth. Allow enough time for it to drain so that there is no overflow. You can discard or compost the spent weed once it has been thoroughly strained.

3. Allow it to cool. After 30 minutes at room temperature, transfer it to the refrigerator.

4. Drain any excess water. When it's cool and solidified, you should be able to see the butter on top and a thin layer of water on the bottom. Pour the water out of the jar with care. Hold the butter in place with a clean finger or utensil to prevent it from slipping out.

Step 4: Have fun!

Your cannabutter is now ready for consumption. To make dosing easier, cut it into small, uniform pieces. Cannabutter can be substituted for butter or oil in almost any recipe.

Because it is so potent, start with a small amount of cannabutter until you find your tolerance level. When dosing cannabutter for recipes, mix it with regular butter. You can always add more cannabutter or eat more edibles, but you can never take it back. Slow down.

How to store cannabutter

Store your canna butter in the fridge in an air-tight glass jar.

 A sealed mason jar works well. The canna butter stored in the fridge should last 3 to 4 weeks. You can also store it in an opaque or dark glass jar. Light exposure degrades cannabis over time, so any opaque jar or covering will extend its life.

You can also freeze cannabutter if you really want it to last. Freezing cannabis does not degrade its effects and can extend the life of the cannabutter up to six months.

Always smell older cannabutter. If it smells rancid, don't eat it.

Canna butter is a versatile ingredient that can be used in many dishes. Following these simple steps will help you make perfect canna butter every time. Keep in mind that depending on the recipes, the temperature and cooking time may vary, so always read instructions carefully to ensure the best results. With some patience and love, you can easily make delicious edibles from your own cannabis-infused butter at home.