Baptized in Rain and Regret (smut)
Iâm proud of this oneâŠ. Hope yâall like it as much as I do
âI loved him enough to keep leavingâ
Warning: 18+, explict context, goodbye sex, and you know so onâŠ.
Oh lord! Forgive for the things I feel for this man
The rain starts the way it always does in this town, soft at first, then relentless, like itâs trying to wash the whole world away. You donât know why you come back to Joelâs place. Thatâs a lie. You know exactly why. Itâs the only place the ache in your chest has ever quieted. The porch light is still busted, the doorframe still scarred from some old repair he never finished. He opens the door before you knock, like he felt you standing there, like the space between your bodies is a live wire heâs always been tuned to.
âHey,â he says. Just that. Low. Rough. The word is a stone in his throat, and you can feel the weight of it from where you stand.
âHey,â you answer, and it feels like surrender. His hair is messier than usual, gray threading through the dark, catching in the weak porch light. He looks older, etched with a loneliness that wasn't there before, a loneliness you put there. When his eyes meet yours, something in them shatters, a dam breaking, and the raw, desperate tenderness that floods out makes your own breath catch.
âYou okay?â he asks, the question automatic, a reflex of a man who used to be your shelter.
You swallow against the knot of emotion. âI didnât know where else to go.â
He nods like thatâs the only answer that makes sense. Like itâs the only answer that ever has. Joel steps aside, his body a silent invitation youâve never been able to refuse. You walk past him, and the familiar smell of him whiskey, gun oil, sawdust, and something that is just Joel, warm and male and unforgettable, wraps around you, a phantom limb reminding you of everything youâve lost. Inside, nothing has changed. The couch still dips where he always sat, your mug is still in the cabinet, a ceramic ghost he couldn't bring himself to bury. That realization hits you like a physical blow, a testament to a love he couldn't let die.
The door closes behind you with a soft click that sounds like the end of a sentence, even though neither of you believes in endings anymore. Silence stretches, thick and electric, humming with all the words you haven't said.
âAre you okay?â he asks again, his voice strained as he fumbles with something on the table, avoiding your gaze.
âYeah⊠I just didnât know where else to go,â you repeat, the words tasting like ash as rain drips from your hair onto his floor.
He finally looks at you, dark eyes, tired eyes, still so painfully gentle itâs like a knife twisting in your ribs. âOh, sorry. Towel.â He disappears down the hall, and you call after him, your voice thin. âYou havenât changed anything?â
âMe or the cabin?â he yells back.
He returns, pressing a rough towel into your hands. âBoth,â you say softly.
He lets out a small, broken chuckle. âYeah. Every time I try, I just canât.â He glances around the room, his gaze lingering on the empty space beside him on the couch. âStill feels like home like this.â
You shrug off your jacket, towel your hair, try not to think about what that means, how you are still his home, even when youâve destroyed it. He leans against the table, arms crossed, the muscles in his forearms tense. âNot to scare you away or anything⊠but what are you doing here?â His eyes stay on you, searching, stripping you bare, and the hurt in them is so profound you canât breathe.
And suddenly it all snaps into place, the memory of his face the last time you left, the way he just stood there, letting you go. How much you hurt him. How much he never said.
âYou know whatâŠâ you say, your voice trembling as you back toward the door. âThis was a bad idea. Iâm sorry. I shouldnât be here.â Before he can answer, youâre already opening the door, the cold rain a welcome shock against your heated skin. You step out onto the porch, then down the steps, not stopping, the rain louder out here, heavier, soaking you through as you fumble for your keys at the edge of the yard.
Behind you, the door opens. âHey! wait.â
You donât. Footsteps follow, quick, uneven, desperate. Heâs off the porch and in the rain with you before you can process it, his hand closing around your arm.
âDonât do this,â he says, breathless, his grip like a vise.
You turn, rain streaming down your face, mixing with the tears you canât stop. âI canât be here, Joel. I donât get to walk back into your life whenever I feel lost.â
He stops a few feet away, rain plastering his shirt to his chest, his hair to his forehead. He looks stripped bare out here,no walls, no distance, just raw, agonizing need. âYou think Iâm fine without you?â he asks quietly, his voice cracking. âYou think Iâm standing here because Iâm okay? That I sleep through the night? That I donât see your face every time I close my eyes?â
You donât answer, your heart hammering against your ribs.
âI didnât ask you to fix anything,â he continues, stepping closer. âI didnât even ask you to come. But you leaving like this, like none of it mattered, like you can just erase us, that hurts worse than anything.â
Your keys slip from your fingers, disappearing into the wet ground, forgotten. âI donât do well alone,â he admits, his voice low and steady but breaking underneath with the weight of his confession. âI learned how to get through the days. Work. Sleep. Repeat. But nightsâ He exhales sharply, a ragged sound. âNights are loud when you donât have the person you love.â
The words hang between you, unguarded, a desperate offering. âYou think I left because I didnât need you?â you whisper, your voice barely audible over the rain. âI left because loving you scared me to death. Because staying meant admitting I couldn't do this on my own either.â
He closes the distance between you, his body radiating a heat that cuts through the chill of the rain. Heâs so close you can feel the tremor running through him. âIâm not asking you to stay forever,â he says gently, his thumb brushing a raindrop from your cheek. âIâm just asking you not to walk away like I donât matter. Like we donât matter.â
Your breath stutters, a sob caught in your throat. The rain soaks you both, relentless, unrelenting, a baptism you canât escape. âI donât know how to come back,â you admit, the truth tearing out of you.
He rests his forehead against yours, his skin warm despite the cold. âThen donât come back forever,â he murmurs, his voice a raw, intimate whisper. âJust donât leave tonight.â
Thatâs all it takes. The last thread of your resolve snaps. You surge forward, crashing your mouth against his. Itâs not a gentle kiss; itâs a collision, a desperate, hungry clash of teeth and tongue and lips. It tastes of rain and regret and five years of longing. He groans, a deep, guttural sound, and his arms are around you, lifting you, crushing you to him with a force that steals your breath. He walks you backward, his mouth never leaving yours, until your back hits the solid wood of the doorframe. He kicks the door shut, the sound echoing the finality you both defied moments ago.
He breaks the kiss just long enough to pull your soaked shirt over your head, his hands rough and shaking as they skim your skin. âIâve missed you,â he breathes against your neck, his words a hot brand. âGod, Iâve missed you so much.â His mouth is on you then, trailing fire down your throat, his teeth scraping your collarbone, and your head falls back against the door with a thud, your fingers digging into his shoulders, holding on for dear life. You fumble with the buttons of his shirt, your own hands clumsy with urgency, needing to feel his skin, to erase the months of nothingness.
He shrugs out of the wet fabric, and your hands roam over the familiar landscape of his chest, the coarse hair, the solid muscle, the scars you know by heart. He lifts you again, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carries you down the short hall to his bedroom, his mouth claiming yours in another searing kiss. He lays you down on his bed, the sheets cool and smelling faintly of him, and he follows you down, covering your body with his own, a perfect, agonizing fit.
There are no more words, only the sound of rain against the window and the frantic rhythm of your hearts. This isnât about reconciliation or promises. Itâs a desperate, primal need to touch, to possess, to be consumed one last time. His hands are everywhere, memorizing you, reclaiming you, and your body arches into his, a silent plea for more. He hooks his fingers into your jeans, tugging them down, his eyes burning into yours in the dim light, a dark, possessive fire that makes you tremble. He follows with his own, and then there is nothing between you, only skin on skin, a searing, perfect connection.
He enters you with a slow, deep thrust that steals the air from your lungs, and itâs like coming home and dying all at once. He stills for a moment, his forehead pressed to yours, his eyes closed, as if heâs
He carries you down the short hall to his bedroom, his mouth never leaving yours, a desperate, consuming kiss thatâs meant to devour and remember. He lays you down on his bed, the sheets cool and smelling faintly of him, and he follows you down, but he doesnât cover your body with his own. He hovers above you, propped on an elbow, his gaze sweeping over you, a man starved finally allowed to feast. His eyes are dark, intense, drinking in every detail, the curve of your hip, the swell of your breast, the way the dim light catches the tear tracks on your cheeks.
His touch is reverent, a slow, torturous exploration. His fingers trace the line of your jaw, down your throat, across your collarbone. Itâs not the touch of a man taking what he wants; itâs the touch of a man trying to memorize a map he knows heâll have to burn. He leans down, his lips brushing your shoulder, then the hollow of your throat, placing soft, lingering kisses that feel like benedictions and goodbyes all at once. âIâm gonna remember this,â he murmurs against your skin, his voice thick with emotion. âEvery inch of you.â
A sob catches in your throat, a small, broken sound, and you know with a certainty that carves through your soul that this is going to hurt later. This moment, this perfect, agonizing intimacy, is a wound you will carry with you forever.
He hooks his fingers into your jeans, his eyes meeting yours, asking for a permission he doesnât need to voice. You lift your hips, a silent, willing offering. He slides the denim down your legs, his hands caressing your skin as he goes, his touch branding you. He does the same with his own clothes, his movements unhurried, deliberate, as if heâs performing a sacred rite. When he settles back over you, his skin warm and solid against yours, the weight of him is both a comfort and a crushing reminder of everything youâre about to lose.
He enters you slowly, so slowly, a deep, deliberate thrust that sheathes him to the hilt. He doesnât move, just stays there, his forehead pressed to yours, his eyes closed, his breath mingling with yours. Heâs not just inside your body; heâs trying to crawl back into your soul, to fill every empty space you created when you left. Heâs savoring the feeling, the fit, the way your body arches to take him in, a perfect, painful homecoming.
Then he begins to move, a slow, languid rhythm that is the antithesis of the frantic need from moments before. This isn't about frantic release; it's about possession. Each stroke is deep, measured, a silent declaration. His hands roam your body, learning you again, his touch a brand on your skin. Heâs trying to commit the feel of you to memory, the texture of your hair, the softness of your thighs, the way your breath hitches when he angles his hips just so. Heâs not just fucking you; heâs absorbing you, trying to keep a piece of you for the long, empty nights ahead.
Your body responds with a mind of its own, your legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him deeper, your hands tangling in his hair. You meet his gaze, and the raw, unguarded love and loss you see there is your undoing. A small cry escapes your lips, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure and profound, soul-crushing sorrow. Itâs the sound of a heart breaking and being made whole in the same instant. He hears it, and his rhythm falters for a second, his eyes softening with a devastating tenderness before he captures your mouth in a kiss thatâs all tongue and teeth and desperate, shared breath.
The pace builds, not from frantic urgency, but from a deep, coiling tension thatâs been winding between you for years. Itâs a slow, magnificent burn that builds into an inferno. The pleasure is overwhelming, a tidal wave of sensation that drowns out everything but the feel of him, in you, around you. When your release finally crashes over you, itâs violent and all-consuming, a shattering climax that rips a gasp from your lungs and leaves you trembling in its wake. He follows you over with a low, guttural groan, his body tensing as he buries himself deep, pouring every ounce of his love, his pain, his desperation into you.
He collapses against you, his weight a welcome, suffocating anchor, and you lie there, tangled together, your bodies slick with sweat and rain, the silence in the room now heavier than any words. You can feel his heart hammering against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat counting down the seconds you have left. You close your eyes, a single tear tracing a path down your temple, and you let yourself have this one last moment, knowing that when you open them, it will all be over.
