who's your daddy? | a joel miller fic
summary: late night, broken heart, familiar arms. after a date goes south, there's only one person you know you can turn to- your daddy's best friend, joel miller. (or.. joel miller is a MUNCH)
[part two]
warnings: age gap, dad’s best friend!joel, mentions of alcohol consumption and shitty dates, daddy kink, comfort sex, unspoken feelings, oral (f!receiving), soft!joel, mutual desperation, one (1) paula deen reference.
a/n: this came to me after listening to who's your daddy by toby keith. everyone say thank you, tobias.
Summer is in full swing.
The cicadas are humming, the crickets singing, and the countryside sways with the sweet chorus of early August. It would be pleasant, would be, if you hadn’t just been on the worst date of your life. Which is why you’re… here.
Joel’s house is modest, outdated, old. It’s the same house he’s lived in since his early thirties, the house that’s always freezing cold and has absolutely no decoration inside whatsoever, save for the Thomas Kinkade painting above the fireplace that your mother forced him to put up, for some color. It was two stories, a kitchen that screamed old bachelor, and linoleum floors that had seen more active combat than a Vietnam war vet.
Your car rolls up the gravel driveway embarrassingly loud for the time of night. To be honest, you still weren’t so sure why you had decided to go see Joel, of all people. The steering wheel is clenched between tense palms, fingertips throbbing as you hold on to it tighter. For a moment, you almost consider pulling out and driving back home, out towards the city, far, far, far away from the man that’s sitting just inside, but you see the hallway light flicker on.
Great. Here we go.
You cut the radio. You run on a little tough luck, baby. Don’t you sweat it- Sorry, Toby Keith.
Your vans, busted from daily use, hit the pathway up to his porch with quiet little shuffles, as though every bone in your body is begging you to turn around and seek the comfort of your own bed. But you’ve already locked your car door, already fixed the hem of your dress, already reached out and knocked on the door and-
Joel opens it in record time.
Your mouth goes dry, but you quickly save face, a little smirk pulling at your glossy mouth when you see the state he’s in.
Gray sweatpants slung low on his hips, a shirt that’s too tight for a man nearing grandpa age, and messy strands of hair still wet from his shower- locks that are more salt than pepper at this point in his life. He has no business being so handsome, for such an old, old man. HEAVY emphasis on old. Yet… there he stands.
Joel opens his mouth to speak, quickly forcing them into a thin line as you raise your hand, effectively silencing him before he’s got the chance to joke, protest, or say something stupid and Southern.
“Nope. No. Not yet, Miller.” You push your way inside without waiting for his invitation, knowing he’ll always let you in, and he watches you with confused, sleep hazy eyes, huffing as you quickly toe off your shoes, arms stretching out as you let the air of his home shuffle in through your nostrils.
It’s smelled the same for your whole entire life, and it smells the same even now, when there’s a little smidge of tequila in your system and you’re still reeling from a shitty date. Smells like Joel. Like cedar and wood shavings and a hard day’s work, like the same scented candle he always gets, the bergamot amber one he swears isn’t girly. (It is.)
“Were you a fucking asshole in your early twenties, Joel?” You finally ask, falling back onto the plush couch. An old college football game is paused, something from the nineties, with teams you hardly know and a gritty sort of edge blurring at the sides from the poor video quality.
Joel snorts. He shuts the door behind him with a click, and without rhyme or reason, grabs your shoes and places them beside his scuffed up work boots. There’s something tender about that, something gentle that you don’t feel intelligent enough to psychoanalyze at this current point in time.
“No hello?” He grumbles low, sinking into the couch beside you. His knee hits against yours. Familiar. Not super exciting. Still, it makes your belly churn, a feeling you blame on the margarita you had… three hours ago. “But, yeah, sweetheart- and I was probably worse.” Joel’s quiet for a beat, allowing your eyes to settle on him, a gaze he pretends he can’t feel from where he sits, staring at the unmoving screen. “Every man’s a dick in his early twenties, and the ones who pretend they ain’t are tryin’ to sell you somethin’.”
“Trying to sell me something?” You snort, nodding a bit. “Yeah. Like Mary Kay.” “Huh?” You roll your eyes. “Nothing.” Joel chews on his lip for a moment, tasting copper from where the skin is chapped, and finally takes in a deep breath. “Fine. I’ll bite, girl. What -who- has got your panties in a twist?”
“Oh. Just some stupid twerp I met off Bumble.” You shrug off your cardigan as Joel repeats the word Bumble out loud, as though it’s his first time ever hearing the noun, and you grab one of his throw pillows, embroidered with a fish and a bear, and hug it to your chest. “He told me I was too much.”
“The fuck’s that mean?” Joel guffaws, turning to you with furrowed brows. He looks so confused, so annoyed, and the protective little glint that glimmers in his familiar eyes makes your heart pound. You can make out the sun spots scattered over his face from a life spent working hard beneath the sun, old scars from drills and nails and whatever trouble he got into in his younger years, and you can see every line of gray that’s streaked throughout his beard, but it suits him. It’s always suited him.
“Means I’m too loud. Too opinionated. Too… much.” You shrug, resigning to the fact you yourself don’t exactly understand the comment, and groan out soft. “What’d’you think, Joel? Am I?” Joel stares at you. Long. Hard. Like a man who’s spent almost sixty years trying to learn women and has never gotten very far. But right now? In the dim light of his living room, with her outdated wallpaper and busted old television, he forces himself to try to understand, to try to speak, if only for you.
“No.” He finally says, tongue dry. “No, I don’t think you’re too much. Think you’re… think, well, you’re smarter’n me, that’s for sure. Only one of us graduated from college, so that’s a start.” You watch through your eyelashes, the way he picks at the skin of his cuticles, the way he fidgets with his watch that’s been broken for a decade but he’s never bothered fixing up. “And… maybe you were too much for that boy.” Your ears perk at the way he snarls boy, as though it hurts his tongue just to speak it.
That makes a little grin spread across your face. “Think I’m too much for you?” You ask sweetly, knees scraping along the couch cushions as you shuffle towards him. You toss the throw pillow to the ground, and Joel wants to protest. He wants to be a crotchety old man angry about his home goods, but he doesn’t. He just watches the way you shimmy close, feels the way your arm warms against his, the way your fingers ghost over the fabric of his pants.
He chuckles. Low, unguarded, slightly nervous- although he’d never admit that out loud. “Baby…” He warns so quietly you barely catch it, wrist flexing as he runs his fingers through his hair. But, against his better judgement, he answers your question. “No. Ain’t never met a woman that was too much.” “Are you bragging, Miller?” You breathe soft, an eyebrow quirking as your nail finds the collar of his shirt. He sucks in a sharp breath, and you both pretend it didn’t happen. You thumb the material gently, feeling the softness of the cotton, smelling his shampoo and the toothpaste and that unmistakable scent that’s unique to Joel Miller, and Joel Miller only.
“Maybe.” Joel watches the way your eyes gloss over, lip chewed between your teeth, and he opens up his arms, knowing you’re still thinking about that boy. “C’mere.”
You obey, curling up against him like a cat at the scratching post, breath hitching when you feel his palm slide up to the nape of your neck. His fingers, long and calloused and well worked, tangle themselves up in your hair, and there are soothing circles from his fingertips indenting along your scalp real gentle and slow like, as though any sudden movement may spook you, like you’re a wounded animal in the forest he’s just stumbled upon. You snort at the thought. “Don’t gotta be sweet on me, Joel.”
“Not doin’ it ‘cause I got to.” His lips are pressed to the crown of your head, and he inhales slowly, picking up on your lingering perfume, sweet and feminine, and the remnants of your shampoo from your morning shower. He hates that he knows you always shower in the mornings. “Wanna talk about it?” He finally asks.
You shake your head no. “Nothing to talk about.” You admit with another shrug, head lolling against the crook of his neck. “Just that… men are fucking stupid.” He laughs at that, a real laugh that shakes his chest and makes his grip tighten just a bit around you. “I coulda told you that.”
“I’m sure you could’ve.” You mutter, voice bitter and annoyed, before crossing your arms.
“Hey now.” Joel runs a soothing hand down your back, chuckling softly to himself. “Don’t get all snappy at me, baby. Tell me how to make it better. That’s what you want, right? For me to make it better?” His voice drops, and your face drops with it, nerves suddenly lurching up the back of your throat like you’re choking on the pit of a peach, chest going tight with the sudden questioning.
“W-What?” You can hardly get the words out. “Why- Joel, why would you-” But your words are failing you, and you feel the heat stuttering up your throat, clawing at your cheeks. Death would be kinder than the embarrassment you feel right now.
“You drove all this way, baby. Surely for a reason.” Joel hums, voice cool as a cucumber, and gently drags his palm along the side of your body, feeling your warmth behind the material of your outfit. “No? You don’t want me to take care of it? Don’t need me to make it better?”
“Joel…” Your voice is a whimper, and you hate how your thighs clench, how your body betrays you. Judas, you think to yourself.
“What is it, darlin’? Tell your old man what you want.” Joel’s breath is hot against your ear, lips brushing against the smooth skin of your lobe, and you let out a groan.
“I-... Joel. Please. I- this- we can’t-”
Joel shakes his head, burying his face in the nape of his neck, and he inhales deeply, the air stuttering just slightly. “We can’t what, baby? Use your words.”
His hand is sliding down your belly, gentle, scoping out the curves and slopes of flesh, his palm magnetic as it glides down towards your thighs. You don’t protest when he slowly raises the hem of your skirt, when his thumb brushes down the front of your panties.
“Lace.” He hums, fingertip tracing over the material. “You were lookin’ to get some tonight, weren’t you? Dirty girl.” He chuckles, and you feel the noise vibrate through you. You hate that you like it. You hate that he’s making you feel filthy and you want more. More, more, more.
Your thighs part on your own accord, and you bite down so hard on the inside of your cheek you can taste the hot trickle of your own blood.
“Dad’ll kill us.” You finally murmur, brows furrowing as you lean further back, your mouth gracing the side of his bearded jaw. You press a little kiss there, eyes closing shut as his digit continues tracing up and down your underwear.
“He in the room with us?” Joel murmurs, his fingertips slowly headed towards the waistband of your panties.
“I sure fuckin’ hope not.”
Joel snorts out a chuckle, nudging your cheek with his. “Then shut the fuck up and let me fix that boy’s mistake, yeah?”
You nod, breathless, and his hand slips behind your panties. His middle finger drags through your folds and you feel his groan before you hear it. A whimper escapes you at the roughness of his touch, the way he gathers up your slick to spread it across your swollen clit, his movements so slow it makes your teeth grit, and you can’t help the way your nails gently dig into the flesh of his forearms.
“This little pussy deserves better’n some boy who don’t know how to treat her.” Joel rasps, nose nudging your temple as he watches the space between your thighs, relishing in the way you shake for him.
You moan out low and slow at his words. Nobody’s ever talked to you like that. “And you do?” You tease out, breathless.
Joel quirks an eyebrow at that. A challenge. You feel his fingers stop against your clit, and he drags them down towards your entrance, slowly teasing your hole, slow and steady, barely pressing in. The heel of his palm brushes up against your swollen bud, and you can feel your wetness dripping, pooling down your ass and into your underwear, no doubt staining his sweatpants. Joel removes his fingers from your fold, and you feel his palm pull back, coming down to slap against your cunt with a little yelp of pleasure and a sudden jolt of your hips.
“Get up.” And it isn’t a question, it’s an order.
So you do, knees wobbly, brow furrowed, and you watch as he lays back on the couch. “Sit down.”
When you turn to sit down on the other end, he rolls his eyes, grabbing your wrists. “No, stupid girl.” And the name makes you giggle soft, makes your cheeks go hot with that terrible, awful feeling. “On my face.”
“Joel-”
“Y’ain’t too heavy and y’ain’t gonna hurt me. Now do as you're told and come gimme some sugar.” His tone is snappy but fond, and your eyes nearly roll back into your head as he speaks.
With a moan you settle yourself down on top of his face, palms flat against the couch arm that his head rests upon. You gently tangle your fingers into his hair, leaning forward until your forehead is resting on a cushion. His nose nudges through your pussy, and when you hear him inhale, deep, your stomach churns with both excitement, and that terrible nervousness that comes with being naked and exposed in front of someone for the very first time.
His tongue probes along the opening of your cunt, and you feel him push the muscle slowly in, taste your wetness. Joel groans against you and you feel it straight through your cunt, which the tip of his nose is slowly rubbing, making your thighs shake around his head.
“Joel.” You whimper, nails dragging along his scalp.
The chuckle he puffs out is dripping with arrogance, and normally you’d roll your eyes, but his lips trail up and enclamp your clit between them, and your brain goes fuzzy, all thoughts pooling out through your ears as the overwhelming feeling of pleasure overtakes you.
He pulls back, head popping out from between your thighs, and with his thumbs he spreads you open. You nearly choke, watching his every move with dark, lust ridden eyes.
“She’s real pretty.” Joel moans, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to your clit. “Taste’s like she needed me.” His eyes flick up to yours, and he’s got a boyish charm sparkling in his irises, something mischievous and so horny it makes your legs ache. “That right, isn’t it? Needed her daddy real bad.” Your pussy pulses at the word daddy, and Joel notices. Of course he does. He chuckles, pressing another sloppy, open mouthed kiss against your most sensitive part.
“That’s what I thought.” Joel hums, cocky as can be. “Came knockin’ at my door like a lost little lamb, drippin’ and beggin’ for me.”
“Joel…” You beg, jolting slightly forward when he licks a flat strip up the length of your slick.
“Easy now, sugar. Ain’t even started yet.”
Joel’s palms, large and rough, drag up the back of your thighs, fingers digging into your ass. “Sit down, baby. Don’t hover. Think I can’t take it?” And when he pulls you down to his face, you whimper, and he grins against the smooth skin of your thighs. “Not too much. Not for me.” His voice is muffled, and you can’t help but snort.
Joel’s tongue slowly traces over your clit, throbbing and aching for his touch. You feel every nerve in your body awaken, and you feel the warmth of his spit as he takes it between his lips, sucking on it slow and steady. Your hips are rocking on their own accord now, a fistful of his hair in your hands as the other steadies yourself on the armrest, and Joel is groaning like a man starved.
“That’s it.” He groans into you. “Take what you need, baby. Use my fuckin’ face.” You throw your head back, fingers finding your nipple, and you roll it between your thumb and forefinger, thighs quivering against him as his mouth slurps your cunt. Literally slurps. The noises are wet, wanton, lewd, and you’re fairly certain the next time you walk into a church you’ll burst into flames.
Joel’s got one hand steadying your ass, helping you grind against him, and his other slowly snakes up, up, up, replacing your fingers with his. He kneads at your tits, thumb brushing over your pebbled nipples, and even as he continues his gentle twisting and turning, his tongue never lets up on your clit.
He licks and laps and sucks, nose brushing, chin dripping, as though he’s waited all his life to prove his pussy eating prowess.
You can feel your stomach tightening, that coil heaving its way through your belly, and somehow, somehow, Joel can tell.
“You gonna cum like this, girl? All messy on my tongue?” His southern drawl glides up to your ears, and you feel something in you snap as his mouth finds your clit again.
“Joel. Oh, Joel. Fuck- Joel I’m gonna- I’m-I’m-” But you’re already too far gone, and your orgasm hits you like a freight train. You lurch forward, belly pressing to his forehead, as your climax nearly snaps you in two. You cry out, a loud, animalistic noise you’re not very proud of, and you feel your clit swollen and throbbing, feel the slickness sliding down your folds and painting his face.
Joel hums against your cunt, grateful, as though your orgasm was some divine blessing thrust upon him. Your hips slowly grind against him, and he lets you drag your clit up and down his extended tongue. Your hand is tight over his, where it rests on your ass, fingers laced- neither of you remember when that happened, and despite what just happened, it almost feels too intimate. But neither of you pull away.
“That’s it, ride it out baby. Drown me in it. Let this old man die happy with your sweet little cunt smotherin’ my face.”
You snort, slapping the back of his head, and slowly pull away, thighs aching and shaking, cunt pulsing and wet and thoroughly his. You collapse back against the couch, legs tangled with his, and throw an arm over your eyes, groaning out softly.
“Joel.” You whisper, and he knows the weight that one little word carries. A warning. A what the fuck did we just do? A line neither of you can ever come back after crossing.
He grunts in response. “I know.” He murmurs. His hand gently finds your knee, his thumb tracing a circle against the bone, and you sit up slow. Right now, that’s all he can say. With your cum still lingering on his tongue and your scent soaking through his facial hair, Joel can’t think much better than those two little words.
Your eyes flick to the bulge that’s thick and tenting behind his thin gray sweats, then up to his. He follows your trail of sight before snorting a bit. “That’s between me and God. Don’t you worry ‘bout that.”
Your eyes roll on their own accord, and Joel grins, rubbing his soaked beard. There’s another long moment of silence, but it isn’t awkward. It’s just charged. He props himself upright with a grunt, before his eyes meet your own. “Hungry?”
“Starved.” You admit.
Joel stands, and extends his hand for you- ever the gentleman- pulling you up to your feet gently. “Grilled cheese?” “You burnt it last time.”
“Ain’t fuckin’ Paula Deen, girl.”
“No.” You admit, walking into that outdated kitchen with him. “You couldn’t be. Y’aren’t racist.”
He chuckles, hand gently slapping your hip, and shuffles through his fridge. “Best I can do is scrambled eggs.”
“Lay ‘em on me, old man.”
Joel casts a glance over his shoulder. Something not shy of an Easy, girl. I’ll bend you over. Glance, and it makes you grin. When he turns around, you take the chance to admire him, eyes watching his broad back stretch behind the fabric of his sleep shirt back, the way his thick biceps flex as he reaches for a bowl- Christ on a cracker, this guy was a work of art. And your horniness was practically dripping down his throat just a few minutes ago. The thought makes you shimmy in your seat. You look down at the apex of your thighs, huffing out a bit. Easy, girl, easy.
“If you…” Joel clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. He’s still turned away from you, still stirring and cracking and seasoning. “You have any more bad dates, you just… you come on over to me, okay?”
You blink once. Twice. Throat suddenly dry. “I-”
“Ain’t gotta give me nothin’.” He interjects quickly. “That’s not… I’m not some young guy trying to get his rocks off. Just… just want to take care of you.” His voice drops to a shy sort of lilt, and you nod slowly, mouth slightly agape.
“Okay.” You finally say, extending your hand across the counter. “You got it, Miller.” Joel shakes it, and you grin like a fool.
“Just… don’t tell your real daddy.” He warns, and you both break out into a fit of giggles.
“Deal.” You say softly, smiling at his back as he turns to crack a few eggs into a skillet set one knob too high.
That night, you leave your panties on the doorhandle of his house, a thank you note of sorts, before driving back home with a smile on your mouth, and a dull ache between your thighs.
Maybe you were too much for that guy. Perhaps Joel was right about that. But you weren’t too much for him, and as your mind reels, that’s all that really matters.
