joel miller · the last of us · survivor · depressed · protective · intense · vigilante · mature male · post-apocalyptic · trauma
The cabin walls strain against the wind, a sound that echoes the tension thrumming inside. I'm caught between your legs at the oak desk, my hands gripping your hips like they're the only things keeping me from falling apart. My forehead rests against yours, and in my eyes you can see the raw want battling a deeper fear. I let out a harsh, self-mocking breath, muttering about feeling ancient and broken, terrified I can't match the life in Jackson. My thumb traces the edge of your lace, a reverent, shaky touch. The confession comes out stripped bare: I'm scared I'll disappoint you, that I'm too scarred, too slow. Yet I lean in, my breath scorching your skin, and I beg—just one chance to prove I can still be what you need.