struggle with survivin'. @littlemorals - Tumblr Blog

❝ no matter what . ❞ revamped in 2022. written since 2019. ind. sel. semi-priv. low activity j * oel miller of naughty dog's " the l * ast of us " franchise. nsfw themes present, minors dni. loved by mae. / CARRD. / PLAYLIST. / also found at: @draeven, @thwipmaster, @recuerdames, @hemercury.

#dni.

skyshipper

PEDRO PASCAL - HUMAN SUNSHINE (2/∞)

#WAAA

bijameswilson

PEDRO PASCAL CINEMATIC UNIVERSE’S HOTTEST MOMENTS

45. 74/232 votes → Dave York squatting down as he lines up a sniper shot in The Equalizer 2 (2018)

#tbt.

pascalsky

Pedro Pascal | Solo Loewe 2017 [1]

#HELLO SIR.#tbt.

valtsv

covered in blood for sexy reasons

valtsv

also i just got stabbed

valtsv

dont suppose theres anyone here willing to tenderly clean, stitch and bandage my wounds while calling me an idiot in a exasperatedly fond tone of voice is there

glassrunner

glassmenagerie

#▒ » ‟ 𝐝𝐲𝐧: 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭. / esther.

couri6r

Visit Original Link

“A ne’er-do-well extols the love of a good woman on “Feathered Indians,” a tune built on an entrancing swirl of delicate fiddle, strummed mandolin and crying steel guitar.” ———- Chrissie Dickinson, Chicago Tribune (2018)

marvelgifs

keirametzofcarreras-archive-dea

#▒ » ‟ 𝐟𝐞𝐰 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬. / joel

whatelsecanwedonow

You think you know me, little girl? Let me tell you something…

THE LAST OF US (2013)

#▒ » ‟ 𝐟𝐞𝐰 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬. / joel #▒ » ‟ 𝐧𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭. / ellie

cantapajarito

Ellie: “Man, must be hard. Just… leaving all your stuff behind like that.”

Joel: “That ain’t the hard part.”

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post wlf attack, joel is left with a fractured right shoulder ( though it’s located on the clavicle it’s his shoulder that’s affected ) – his range of motion there is limited but not entirely so – some broken ribs, a severe concussion, & a shattered kneecap ( joel’s not stupid, like tommy he stood with his back to a wall & fought his hardest against abby & her friends but she still got a shot in ). his shoulder / collarbone fracture was able to be fixed without surgery, though he was of course laid up for nearly a year with his knee’s condition beyond complete repair. joel needs a walking stick from then on, keeps shoulder exercises regular, at times needs help moving / lifting heavy objects, & walks / runs with a limp. because of his limp, joel tries to use stealth to avoid long sprints. aiming a gun & fighting in general proved to be difficult for a month or so after the bone had been reset, but he’s since then adapted to his condition.

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even now, there are certain days when joel has to stop himself from calling out: “sarah? ‘m home!” some nights that old house feels especially empty and he swears he can hear the chime of her laughter, small feet putting on a one woman show to the bash or halican drops. on occasion he’d dance with her too despite the knots in his back or the burn in his arms from a long day at work. a rare cup of coffee (he savors every drop, these days) has joel chuckling to himself, recalling sarah’s very first taste and how she’d stuck her tongue out exclaiming “it tastes like dirt!” tommy will jab at him with his snide little jokes and in the corner of his mind, he just knows she’d join in.

the ache comes creeping in once in awhile; a sharp dagger in his chest some days, a mere surface scratch on others. the whiplash steals breath from his lungs and leaves him gasping for breath on the loneliest of nights. the grief is like a terminal illness, always looming…but luckily, he’s found remedies. more often than not, in the form of a shit-eating, freckled grin.

he’s not sure if a real cure was ever a possibility, or simply wishful thinking. but somewhere in between boston and salt lake city, that girl had cured him.

joel grins wistfully from the dim light of his porch as he watches ellie go, off to raise god knows what hell alongside dina and jesse. just like that, her childhood, too, fades away. hazel hues fall to broken watch.

“here!”

“what’s this?”

“your birthday!”

a heavy sigh. he turns to go inside.

up the stairs he trudges. christ, she’d be thirty - five. instead, immortalized far too young in the old man’s memory – smiles messy with s’mores, victorious squeals after a big win and still the sweetest damn voice he’d ever hear. it’s how she deserved to be remembered. he stops at the desk in his room whereupon his younger self is framed with her. it’s a perfect snapshot of happiness. joel picks up the photo, traces sarah’s image with his thumb. that day, he’d hoisted his pride and joy on his shoulders and she celebrated herself sick with ice cream and still he recalls how she’d called it the best day ever. suddenly, there’s a small pool against the glass. and another. he’ll blink the sting from his eyes, wipe tears from them and then the photo before setting it down.

joel approaches his bed and grunts lowering to one knee. he digs around for a moment before retrieving an old, rust colored shoe box. coming to a stand, he opens it, sets it on his mattress. from his back pocket comes that trusty revolver. he feels the cool metal weigh in his hand.

“jimmy?! jimmy, just stay back! jimmy, i am warnin’ you! don’t – !”

BANG!

“y-yo-you shot him…”

into the box it goes.

joel raises his left wrist, staring down at that sad, old watch with its broken face like he has so many times before. the hands point to 2:15, frozen forever, right down to the minute when her heart stopped beating. she’d died in his arms but he hadn’t let her go. not for twenty - three years. joel sucks in a breath as his fingers work to unbuckle the strap. in seconds, it’s off. and there it is, sitting in his palm. his lungs start to burn as he stares…then he remembers. exhale.

he’ll run a thumb over cracked glass and then, ever so gingerly, he places the watch over faded blue fabric. joel lingers in the moment, looking down at his past, his pain, his grief…then closes the lid. he tucks the box away, back to where he found it.

boot clad footsteps carry him towards the doorway. a pause. over his shoulder joel finds sarah’s face framed beside his own, smiling brightly as ever. he smiles back at her with his hand at the doorknob.

“g’night, baby girl.”