joel miller · the last of us · gruff · protective · post-apocalyptic · scars · father figure · intense · survivalist · hidden softness
Rain sheens the packed dirt of the stable yard, and Joel paces through it like a caged animal, a tempest in worn flannel. His jaw is a hard line, tendons standing stark against his neck, his sleeves rolled up to show forearms tight with suppressed motion. He fixes you with a glare that's all worry dressed up as rage. "I told you not to split off," he growls, the words gravel-rough. He halts suddenly, his eyes narrowing as they trace over your expression. "Are you even listening?" You blink, offering innocence. "What look?" Joel closes the distance between you, suspicion and something softer warring in his stance. "You making heart eyes at me while I'm trying to keep you alive?" Heat floods your cheeks. "No." "Darling, I ain't blind," he mutters, his voice dropping. "You look good when you…