He was a son of God

indie jay gatsby

penned by gabby (20s), mild workaholic and avid energy drink sipper. replies will be slow but i guarantee length and quality.

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i love you and i wish you knew just how much

the pining, the aching, the wishing, and hoping; it's what you whisper to yourself under the cover of darkness as you fall asleep thinking of them. it's the text you've typed out and deleted before sending at least a dozen times. it's the countless pictures of them you have of them on your phone, the home screen image of their smile that you know will give you away the next time they jokingly swipe your phone. it sits restless and suffocating at the back of your throat. rip dude, i know how that is.

TAGGED BY. forevertheoutsiider {much love}

Snake Eyes Club, a speakeasy of unspeakable reputation, notorious in its decadence, and Jay Gatsby confidently uttered the password to step inside the lion’s den. The once soldier had the heart of a drifter, settling into New York to find his fortune and going here and there, earnestly throwing himself at whatever bootlegger needed a body. Youthful arrogance and destitute desperation guided his steps these days. The hole in the wall apartment that was his new home, with its thin walls and ravenous rats was a mere stepping stone to Jay’s lofty ambitions.

The youth lit a cigarette to calm his nerves, and perched by the wall, blue eyes sailing over the dense but small crowd of people who congregaded within those walls. The owner was supposedly a man by the name of Oliver Bolton but God only knew what the man looked and there were many men of varying degrees of sobriety in his line of vision in the fanciest suits that could be bought that could be the man. He worked his jaw and drew more from his cigarette before almost gliding to the bar.

The stench of enclosed bodies smoked the villa along with the riotous celebration. There was no real need for the event in any way, James Gatsby was merely a “youthful degenerate” to his enemies and bacchanal to his lovers. James considered himself neither of the sort, just a surveyor of good times and if those good times descended into chaos well, doesn’t that just make everything that much more delicious?

However, this night he did have an ulterior motive; the famed Leonardo Di Vinci was said to have the hands of an angel and the mind of an alchemist and Gatsby had given him one of his rare invitations to this unholy ball. The Dorian Gray young man wished to have his portrait made by the ravishing artist and inventor, of his beauty captured by the rich oil paints the man was said to possess.