@theartofmadeline
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occasionally subtle
i don't do bad sauce passes
祝日 / Permanent Vacation
Mike Driver
One Nice Bug Per Day
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shark vs the universe
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cherry valley forever
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KIROKAZE
ellievsbear
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
JVL
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@ireallymisscoffee
#IREALLYMISSCOFFEE
independent & canon divergent THE LAST OF US’ JOEL MILLER, kept alive by joey. (30+, utc+2) since 2014. IMs open to all. mature content tagged #usfw at all times. i am slow, but i love u all so come to me & let me love u. spoilers tagged, always. #tlou spoilers. doc.
❛❛ WHAT’S LEFT OF YOU WHEN DEATH MOVES ON? ❜❜
Cyrus lingered in the crumbling back room for some time, rummaging through drawers, cabinets and shelving. The stale scent of rotting wood and stagnant water clung stubbornly to the air, stirring a sense of suspicion. He was a large man, easily the tallest, muscle-cladden. One wrong move, and he would fall through the uneven flooring, so he moved slowly, methodically—boots barely brush along the brittle debris scattered across the floor—while his gaze traced every crooked corner of the dark-lit room. As he walked around, fingers felt along the warped wall paneling, tapping in a practiced pattern until the faintest hollow hum answered back. A small, secret space—somewhere to stash something. His knife slipped free with a soft scrape, prying at the seam until the stubborn strip surrendered with a muted crack. Cyrus looked in to find nothing but disappointment. Just dust.
"...hold on," he called out amidst the silence, low and deep, voice carrying through the decaying walls.
In his rummaging, he had managed to bag a few items; a few sewing needles, three plasters, and a box of nails. Cyrus was the type to bag anything, and everything he could carry. It had come in handy at times, where people would turn up at his door to trade something. Jackson didn't waste; neither did he, that was his own personal motto. Rising with a restrained roll of his shoulders, Cyrus cast one last searching sweep across the space before slipping back through the doorway, drawn toward Joel's voice and the scuff of stubborn effort towards the shelving unit.
"Alright, alright—don't go hurting yourself now, old man. Here," he muttered, voice edged with dry, deliberate humor as he stepped in, setting his backpack aside with a soft, solid thud. Cyrus planted his feet firm against the slick, shifting surface, stance unmoving, despite the treacherous tilt beneath them. With what seemed like very little effort, his hands braced to the corroded metal and applied pressure. Corded muscled biceps and wide, thick shoulders bulged with tension as he pushed with his core and firm stance, the shelving moving with a loud creak and groan along the floor, far until the space beneath was free. He then wiped his hands along his cargo pants and pulled his pack onto his back.
joel let out a low breath through his nose at that—old man—the sound hovering somewhere between a scoff and something softer he didn’t bother naming. “yeah, alright,” he muttered, more habit than heat, stepping aside to give cyrus room. he told himself he was just clearing space, just getting outta the way—but his gaze lingered a second longer than it needed to. watched the way the man set his stance, solid and certain, like the warped floor didn’t dare argue with him. watched how little effort it seemed to take.
it was a stupid thing to notice.
still, joel noticed.
the shelf gave with a long, rusted groan, metal scraping against the laminate in a way that made his teeth ache. joel shifted back in, boots dragging into place as soon as there was room, already crouching before the sound had fully settled. fingers brushed over the patch of floor he’d spotted before. it didn’t feel right, too clean for rot and too deliberate for damage. his knife slid into his palm like it belonged there, the motion practiced enough it barely cost him thought.
he wedged the blade into the seam and twisted.
the panel cracked with a dull, stubborn sound before giving just enough. joel leaned in, hooked his fingers under the loosened edge and pulled. the wood lifted with a soft thunk, revealing a shallow compartment beneath, dust-edged but intact. for a second, he just looked at it like he half-expected it to be empty same as the rest of this place.
it wasn’t.
“well… shit,” he breathed, quiet, almost surprised. not much, but enough to matter in times like these. a couple cans shoved into the corner, labels half gone but recognizable if you’d been doing this long enough. beans, probably. one dented like it’d taken a beating. and, tucked beside them, neat like someone had meant to come back, was a small box of .38 rounds. joel reached for that first without thinking, thumb running along the worn cardboard edge.
“someone got sloppy,” he said after a moment, voice low and steady again. he glanced up, not quite meeting cyrus’ eyes, but close enough to acknowledge him. “or they didn’t make it back.” he got the feeling it was option b. his gaze dropped just as quick. easier that way.
he set the ammo aside, grabbed the cans one by one, turning them in his hands like he might squeeze more use out of them than what they were. couldn’t. didn’t stop him from checking. old habit. same as all the rest. “not a bad pull,” he added, a little quieter now, almost thoughtful as he packed the find away with careful, deliberate movements.
silence settled in around them, thick but not heavy. joel was used to that kind. preferred it, most days. he pushed up to stand with a muted grunt, brushing dust off his jeans in absent strokes, more to have something to do with his hands than anything else. his shoulder rolled once beneath the strap of his pack, easing tension that never really left. “we should keep movin’,” he said finally, voice settling back into that steady, practical cadence. he slung the pack over his shoulder, adjusting the weight with a small shift of his stance. “couple more stops before we head back. light’s gonna turn on us sooner than we think.”
he moved toward the doorway, then paused just short of stepping through. it wasn’t much, barely a hitch in his step, but it was there. like something caught on the edge of his mind, trying to take shape.
joel didn’t let it.
he jerked his head toward the exit instead, gruff as ever, like nothing had crossed him at all. “c’mon,” he muttered, already pushing out into the washed-out daylight, expecting cyrus to follow.
he didn’t look back.
didn’t need to.
𝐒𝐄𝐗, 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 & 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒.
bold what does apply to your muse , italicize what applies sometimes , strike through what never applies .
PEDRO PASCAL The Mandalorian and Grogu | Grogu Joins the Conversation
❝ most people think SURVIVAL is the story. it’s not. it’s what comes AFTER — the part where you try to REMEMBER how to live. ❞
✧ indie joel miller from the last of us. ✧ canon divergent. ✧ occasionally heavy themes. ✧ ship-friendly. ✧ crossover-friendly.
#ireallymisscoffee
almost forgot today's my man's death day.
we all still here? 👀 how we doing, cutiepies?
[The Last Of Us] || Way Down We Go
📺 • The Last Of Us TV Series [2023 - ] 🎵 • KALEO - Way Down We Go | Stripped
//alsooo hi hello, i’ll get the owed starters up today. just gotta nap bc i woke super early. 🙈
// thanks to the wonderful @gcdlight this beautiful piece of art is now in my possession 🥹🥹🥹 thank you so much, i’m in awe.
✦ - i'm sorry but pedro as joel will forever be the most perfect casting and portrayal ever and i'll forever rage and riot that he didn't get an emmy (or most prizes) for it.
my favorite shots of joel per episode: 2x06 “the price”
thank you for an incredible performance, pedro ♥
@kcntsugi liked for a starter location: jackson settlement notes: set in my main verse (canon divergent!), lmk if that's not what you want <3 or if you need anything else changed! joel's got lasting physical trauma after what hap, so he's got to go for regular check-ups-
it was too early for most.
sun not quite cleared the mountaintops yet, the morning still pale and bleached with chill, but joel was already inside the clinic, shoulders hunched against the draft. no need to knock — the front door always stuck just enough to announce him. not that he figured he needed much announcing these days. every time his boot hit the porch step, that limp did the talking for him.
he eased onto the nearest bench, left leg extended just enough to keep the worst of the pressure off. the cane leaned beside him — not something he liked using, and wouldn’t, if tommy and a few other stubborn souls hadn’t made it clear they’d raise hell otherwise. even still, he mostly carried it instead of leaning. old pride ran deeper than old wounds.
his fingers tapped once against his knee before stilling.
he wasn’t good at waiting. not for this, anyway. check-ups had never sat right with him — too still, too quiet, too much space for someone to ask how he was doing and maybe mean it. but he’d agreed to the appointments, and maggie... well, she didn’t make it worse. never rushed him. never looked at him like he was half-splintered and best kept in the barn with the rest of the broken tools.
outside, a couple of kids ran past, laughter loud in the echo of empty streets. joel glanced toward the window. couldn’t help it. then back down, brow furrowing as he rubbed the heel of his hand against the thigh muscle that never quite relaxed anymore.
the door behind the partition creaked.
he didn’t turn.
“mornin’,” he said, voice low. a beat. “’less you’re someone else in a white coat, in which case i’ll be on my way.” he did not see other doctors, not unless he had no choice, which in this case, he very much did.
like this for a starter!
if you got a verse pref, put it in the comments. if you're a mumu and you got a muse pref, put it in the comments. if you're bored, put it in the.. wait.
Everything still ached, a deep throbbing pain that she had almost forgotten, one that she knew had her husband fussing over her every wince and hesitation. It had only three days since she’d given birth, two since she had stubbornly walked herself home because the thought of staying in the hospital for any longer than she had to made her stomach twist and her heart rate spike. Those walls only made her think of him, holed up in bed waiting to go home as if he was only going to rot. He had protested of course, stressing that if something went wrong he didn’t know if he could get her back in time, the doctor’s had echoed sentiments of complications, and all had fallen upon deaf ears in the sheer panic found where she felt the walls collapsing in around her with suffocating pressure. They had barely managed to keep her there for that agonisingly long twenty four hours. Regardless of how long or difficult labour had been, little would keep her from making her way out of there, she had had her bag packed and ready in the short space of time that Joel had taken to leave the room to speak with the medics. Somehow they had allowed it, and somehow no one had caught them in their slow trek home to gush over Jackson’s newest resident.
His skin was flushed pink, tenderly warm against the back of his finger as it traced over his cheek. A perfect little miracle, swaddled tight and quietly snuffling in his sleep after being fed. He looked like Joel, dark, downy hair lining his head, eyes that mirrored his though she could swear one bore a fleck of gold like her own. Even just looking at him made her want to sob, she found herself fighting off tears more often than not. Catching herself in the mirror was no better. More than anything, she wanted a bath, but she knew that meant letting Joel see what lay beneath the baggy old shirt she had resigned herself to. The soft white webbing of decades old stretch marks now overlaid with what she regarded as far more savage ones, deep purple and cutting over the still heavy bump of her stomach. She had grimaced at the sight of it in the mirror, thought about trying to get in the bath herself but resigning herself to anxious silence when she reminded herself she could barely walk let alone haul herself in and out of the tub without the help of her husband. That had the tears welling in her eyes once more, though quickly blinked back at the sound of floorboards groaning under weight.
“I-i know people want to visit but… I just want it to be us, even just this first week.” Soft at first, though she knew it wouldn’t wake him, lingering by the crib as Joel made his slow path up beside her. He could aways sense her worry, and despite the raging hormones that had sent her thoughts into a nose dive, the soft rhythmic sensation of his thumbs working over the edge of her sleeve as they always did brought her some sense of clarity. I’m here. No words were needed. She sniffled for a moment, dabbing back her eyes before her weight shifted to lightly settle her side to his.
“Keep sayin we gotta pick his name, but I still can’t believe any of this is even real. Like I’m gonna wake up and this was all some crazy dream. But then he cries, or I move funny and it hurts- or hell I hit my tit and it makes me cry, and I realise it’s real. He’s our little boy and he’s REAL.”
@ireallymisscoffee wanted the fresh bab
joel’s hand stayed steady even though nothing inside him really was.
he still moved slow, every step deliberate, his leg stiff from the moment he stood. she’d heard it — the subtle shift of his weight on the boards, the uneven drag of his boot — before he even made it to the doorway. and still, he tried not to let it show. tried to keep upright, reliable. tried to be what she needed.
and god, she needed so much. he knew that. knew she was hurting, inside and out, the way her voice warbled just a bit when she spoke, the way she pressed into him now like her ribs might fold in without him there to keep her up.
but he couldn’t carry her. not really. couldn’t have gotten her down those stairs, couldn’t have run her back to the clinic if something had gone wrong. that was what’d scared him most — more than the blood, more than the crying — the way he’d feel her shake and know that if things turned bad, he wouldn’t be fast enough anymore.
his eyes went to the crib instead, quiet for a long while. the baby’s breathing was soft. steady. just like hers had been once — tiny and stubborn and new. just like sarah’s.
his throat caught.
she leaned against him and he didn’t pull away. couldn’t. just let his thumb keep moving across the fabric of her sleeve — slow, quiet little circles, even if his fingers had started to tremble again.
“you ain’t gotta open the door for no one,” he said finally, voice rough. “folks’ll understand. though i ain't gonna deal with maria's wrath. that's gonna be your job.”
he let the silence settle again, kept his gaze on their son. there were too many things he wanted to say and not enough breath for them.
“you’re right,” he murmured, after a moment. “he’s real. don’t always feel like it — like maybe we just… dreamed it all up. but then i see you holdin’ him or i hear his lil' cries and…” his mouth quirked, just barely. “yeah. he's real.”
he turned just enough to brush a kiss into her hairline, hand slipping slow around her waist. not gripping, not needy — just there. grounding himself in her. “you did good, baby,” he said, barely above a whisper. “you did real good.” and he stayed like that — quiet, aching, slow. but present. trying. holding on.
“i know he needs a name eventually, but right now? i think the baby's gonna be fine. no rushin' it.” she just got home. they just got home. they both needed to settle first, calm down and rest up. they could talk names later. in a way he regretted not having done so before, but truth be told, until he saw their little miracle with his own eyes, he didn't want to believe he was real. he couldn't believe that he'd find himself in a position like this again. a dad. sure, he saw ellie as his and she held his heart, but maybe… just maybe she'd be okay to share it with their son.
he was terrified, being a dad again. what if he failed again? but there was no turning back, not now. not from sarah. not from their child.
