So I've read The Great Gatsby a few times, but I only very recently watched the Baz Luhrmann movie. And oh my god, it was so perfect. I've been a little bit obsessed with the 1920s ever since – and by 'a little bit' I obviously mean 'unhealthily'. I never really shipped Gatsby and Nick while reading the book, but after watching the movie I was shipping it so hard that fanfiction just had to be written. Some smutty fanfiction. Obviously.

So yeah, chuck some reviews in my general direction. It's the only way I'll learn.

And obviously I don't own anything, old sport.

One Night

Perhaps it wouldn't have happened if I hadn't once again decided out of sheer embarrassment to get roaring drunk. Or perhaps it wouldn't have happened if I had been able to find Jordan Baker's towering beauty more alluring than intimidating. I'm sure there are a hundred excuses for why it should not have happened, but the past cannot be changed. And even now, no matter how hard I try, there will always be a part of me that refuses to regret what happened that faithful night.

Gatsby had requested that I stay up with him after the second of his parties that he had formally invited me to. Once the final guests had staggered out of the house and into their cars, laughing drunkenly with confetti in their hair, Gatsby and I retreated to one of the drawing rooms, talking over a glass of whiskey. More alcohol was probably the last thing that I needed, but when Gatsby offered with that winning smile there was no way I could possibly refuse.

Goodness knows what we actually spoke about for all that time; most likely it was Gatsby who did all the talking, pointing out objects and features around the room and explaining where they had been imported from or how rare and expensive they were. He seemed to want to impress me, almost longed for it, as if he was required to constantly remind me of just how every impressive he was or I would surely get bored with him. I wish now I could have told him that even without all of the pomp and circumstance he was already the most impressive person I had ever met.

We began the evening on opposite ends of the long velvet upholstered couch, but by the time our glasses were empty we were right next to each other, his thigh brushing up against mine and his hand resting on my arm for just a fraction of a second longer than necessary whenever I happened to make him laugh. Maybe if I had been a little more sober I would have realised that I had been purposely trying to make him smile, if only to bask in the warm glow of hope that shone through him when he did.

His lips against mine came as a shock, although not an unpleasant one as he clearly thought. I had gasped, and Gatsby pulled away at once, cheeks flushed with apologetic embarrassment.

"Forgive me, old sport. I really didn't mean to..."

My kiss cut him off before he could fully get out his apology, and he responded with a ferocity that passed any I had experienced before. He kissed me like a drowning man taking his first gasp of blessed breath, and before I could even truly realise the gravity of what we were doing we had moved to his bedroom, our lips barely parting as we pulled off each other's clothes. It wasn't until we were both half naked, bare flesh pressed against bare flesh, that Gatsby finally pulled away.

"Are you sure about this, old sport?" he asked in a guff whisper, holding himself above me on his elbows. "Is this truly what you want?"

I looked up at him, breathless from our kissing, into those deep blue eyes, darkened with lust but softened slightly with concern for me. I lightly touched his cheek, smiling as he leaned into my hand.

"Of course this is what I want, Jay," I whispered in reply.

At my invitation his lips fell against mine once more, fevered kisses taking my breath away as my hands roamed over bare, flushed skin of their own accord. The rational voice at the very back of my mind, telling me how wrong and obscene what we were doing was, was clouded completely by the pleasure I felt with Gatsby's weight on top of me, his mouth planting wet kissing down my jaw, his face nuzzling my neck.

The rest of our clothing was pulled off and tossed aside carelessly, and once fully nude Gatsby and I rutted against each other like wild animals, our kisses becoming more about teeth and tongues, as if we were devouring each other to satisfy a desperate hunger. Gatsby reached between us, his hand wrapping around both our throbbing, leaking erections and stroking us as one. His face was buried in my neck, breathing me in, as I wrapped my arms around him, clinging on for dear life, clawing frantically at his back.

Through my own incoherent moans of pleasure I could hear Gatsby whispering into my ear "Nick... Nick... oh, Nick..." over and over like a prayer, like a mantra. And I gave myself over to him, the feel of him more intoxicating than any of the liquor I had consumed that night. Before then I had thought that to lay with another man in this way was the sickest perversion, one of the biggest sins a man could commit. But there was nothing sick about this, nothing perverse about Gatsby's hands on me, Gatsby kissing my neck and nibbling my earlobe, Gatsby's sweaty skin under my fingertips and arousal pressed against mine own.

This was not sinful, this was... making love.

We toppled over the edge together, falling over the precipice with deep groans and cries of each other's names, the slick mess of our climax covering our stomachs and his hand. The ecstasy coursed through my entire body, spread through my veins like a poison as I grabbed at him, at the headboard, at the soft Egyptian cotton sheets for dear life. And Gatsby held me close, kissing me gently as my body continued to shudder and tremble beneath him like the aftershocks of an earthquake.

Gatsby cleaned us up and covered us with the bed sheets, wrapping his arms around me and pulling me close until my head rested on his chest. In the afterglow of what had happened I could think of nowhere else I would rather be than in his arms, his steady heartbeat under my ear, his fingers gently stroking my hair. I felt safe. I felt loved. I slept soundly that night, but I now know that Gatsby did not.

We didn't mention or even acknowledge that night after it had happen. I expected nothing less. Only once, in the last days of his life, did Gatsby finally speak of the night we spent together, on the same day that he had told me the truth about his past.

"I have no regrets, old sport," he said, sitting beside me and taking my hand. "That night after you had fallen asleep, I stayed up and watched the green light across the bay through the window, and I had a good long think about things. I love Daisy, of course I do. Everything I have done over the past five years has been for her, you know that now. But I do not want you to think that that diminishes whatever sentiment I hold for you. Perhaps if things were different, old sport... perhaps if there was no Daisy, or perhaps if you and I lived in a different time, a time when this sort of thing is not so frowned upon. Perhaps then we would not have had to limit ourselves to just the one night together. But Nick, believe me when I say that I have absolutely no regrets."

I hold his words in my heavy heart now, along with the memory of that one night. The more I think about it, the more I know deep down that I loved that man, more than anything, perhaps more than anyone else could love him. And still, after all this time, my heart aches at the mere thought of Jay Gatsby, and of that one blissful night.

Hope you enjoyed, Humble Readers.

xxx