A triple first: first attempt at writing in years, first attempt at GWTW fan fiction, first attempt at smut. So this is what I think happened the night of Ashley's party, or at least during the first part of it (not sure if this is a one shot). Don't expect plot of any sort.

This is written for fun, and for my friend T. who was bored one night and needed something to read (be it fan fiction of a movie she only saw once), no copyright infringement intended. Well, here we go.

From the moment she had surrendered to Rhett's lips and the swirling, all-embracing darkness on the landing, Scarlett's mind had lost touch with not only reality, but the past as well. She suddenly was a different woman, wild with fear, and madness and submission as she had never thought she could be, and the past slipped off her shoulders like a discarded, useless robe, for there was nothing in it to prepare her for this.

She had never in her entire life envisioned anything like it; she had not even suspected it was possible. Her dreams of Ashley had only been light, diaphanous affairs that wouldn't reach beyond mild kisses and feather-soft caresses. Those fantasies had never gone further than the restrained lovemaking of the one-year intimacy she had shared with Rhett and in actual fact they couldn't have, because that year was her sole milestone in regard to marital pleasure of any sort and she utterly lacked the imagination that could have embellished endlessly on it.

But this—this was nothing like her dreams, and nothing like her previous times with Rhett himself either. This was what reason would have condemned as nightmare, and yet other, more sheltered and shady corners of her mind welcomed as bliss and rapture. It was a thing of heat and dark and primeval abysses and she should have been disgusted and afraid to tread where no lady ever had, except that she wasn't; she was only afraid that Rhett would let go of her and she held to him with all her strength; her hands on his shoulders and neck every bit as bruising as his had been earlier that night when he'd pinned her to the wall in the dining room; her lips swallowing and returning his kisses with a savagery that mirrored his own hungry, insatiable need.

And once they had reached her bedroom and he had paused his ministrations to open the door, she knew she couldn't stop. Her mind instinctively recognized that if she did, this moment, born out of the heat of alcohol and God knows what else, would be lost forever, dissipated into the awkwardness of words. And she was not ready for it to end, not yet, not ever.

But more than that; it was a mixture of brandy and the leaping flame Rhett had somehow passed from him to her and that made her partake to his madness; and now the tremor of his arms was quivering through her body as well, his strangled words were her strangled words, and she could make no more sense out of her own muffled whispers than of what he tried to mutter inches from her mouth, but in a way both utterances seemed to converge in crystal clearness—he wanted her just as much as she wanted him, with the same fierce, frightening thirst and for the same reason, though for him this seemed to be less of a surprise than it was for her.

It was this heady, ardent mixture coursing through her veins that urged her on and on to take what she was given when she was given, to take what she wanted on impulse; reason, consequences, prior teachings on what was proper, Ashley even be damned to oblivion. She pressed her lips to Rhett's chin and lower, to his neck, kissing him briefly once, twice, before allowing her mouth to linger over his heated, hammering pulse. And that had been his undoing.

He slammed the door closed and her against it, and, as she was dropped to the floor, her legs sliding between him and the shiny wooden surface behind her, Scarlett suddenly felt very small. Rhett was in front of her now, crushing her body to his, and her breath hitched in fear again, for suddenly he seemed huge, larger than anything else in the room, larger than life itself. His body was so close that every rise and fall of her chest touched him, her every move seemed to be met by his flesh; he was everywhere without even trying and she was once again cornered beyond escape.

Her bedroom, unlike the dark hallway they had passed through, was eerily illuminated by moonlight spilling from between the curtains she had forgotten to draw, and, in this setting, his large dark frame seemed to be an infernal shadow, risen from the swirling pit of terror to extinguish all the light of the world and separate her from sanity. Her mind swayed on reluctance and indecision again, but it was only for a moment because then Rhett leaned towards her, one of his hands imprisoning her jaw as he kissed her, while the other fumbled with her wrapper, and the disturbing feeling evaporated against his solid warmth.

His kiss was urgent and hard at first; it was the kiss of desperate, long restrained need he had given her earlier on the landing and she responded in kind, for, strangely enough, to her this seemed like more familiar ground. They were only continuing what they had started and she had been a fool to fear him just now. He was offering her no escape, but it didn't matter, for she didn't want—she didn't need any escape from this. She parted her lips to his insistence, allowing his tongue to dart inside her mouth and take possession with long, fierce, ravenous strokes. But then, just as she felt her own tongue responding to this all-demanding kiss, as she heard the faint moaning sounds of her own breathing, Rhett's pace changed.

His hands, that had removed the wrapper, were now roaming aimlessly across her bare arms, across her shoulders covered by the light silk of her nightgown, across her neck. His hands were impatient, pressing and caressing, tracing scorching paths across her skin; but his lips were now moving leisurely, unhurriedly, as if this was all happening in one sheltered dilated moment, and there was nothing else in the entire world except his lips and the will commanding them, and in front of that she was, and always had been, helpless. Pinned between him and the door she nonetheless seemed to sway, and her arms snaked around his shoulders, her fingers pressing bruising hard against his back, as if she were drowning and he was the last, the only possible aid against death.

She knew by now what was to follow, she knew from the previous two times she had been kissed like this and her pulse quickened in eager anticipation. And it all came—the swift ascending gradation of passion from him, the familiar weakening feeling in her knees and arms, the blurring of her vision and thumping in her ears, the exacerbation of smell, and taste and touch till every fiber of her being seemed to be saturated by Rhett and, if she wanted to remain a separate person from him, she had to break away. It all came just as it should have—except that this was not like the previous two occasions, because he was drunk, and she could feel that on her own lips, and because there was nothing stopping them, nothing grounding them to propriety.

She felt his fingers moving against her skin, loosely encircling her neck as his mouth was still engaged with hers, and then moving lower and lower still, until his hands cupped the roundness of her breasts. Her mind registered the gesture that once would have offended and embarrassed her, that even now, while she was fiercely kissing Rhett and moaning in his mouth, seemed awkward; and she weakly willed her body to remain passive under his touch, to be a last citadel of decency and common sense against this wave of mortifying madness that threatened to swallow her. But then he must have felt her treacherous body respond, her nipples pressing pearl-hard against his palms through the thin layer of silk, for his hands began to move with renewed purpose, his fingers flickering firmly over her flesh, and she couldn't help but whimper in mutual, feverish need, all thoughts of decency forgotten.

He broke the kiss, and his lips were once again impatient, insatiable as he drew paths of fire from her throat to her collarbone and the pale décolletage of her nightgown. Everything was happening too fast, making Scarlett feel powerless and inadequate in the midst of this strange, heated moment. She was caressing Rhett's hair as he was nipping at her flesh for she didn't know what else she was to do in moments like this, what he expected of her now. During the previous times, with both him and her first two husbands, her hands had always clutched the bed linen to have an occupation, to have an anchor to normality when submitted to a man's incomprehensible coarse fever. But now—now she herself was in the clutches of that fever and the sheets…

She drew a sharp breath, realizing that those were just as useless to her now as if they had been miles away, because she and Rhett would never make it to the bed; it was a fact. Almost simultaneously, she felt the warm silk of her nightgown encircling her ankles and she shivered once at the rush of cold air against her newly exposed skin and then a second time when Rhett's lips closed over the peak of her breast, making her gasp for air and instinctively arch towards him in silent offering.

He was panting unintelligible words, her name and other things, as he greedily suckled at her flesh, her shuddering breaths only urging him on. Impulsively, Scarlett pressed both her hands on his dark head, and, at this unwitting impetus driving him to taste her even deeper, he briefly paused and then seized her breasts and brought them together, taking both nipples into his mouth, alternatively and then at once, as if his hunger had soared to painful heights and he had to have her whole, now.

He hadn't had her in years. Years only? They seemed more like centuries of long-drawn torture, every night feasting its merciless drought upon his soul and flesh. He had never had her; she had never responded to him; she had belonged, in her mind and soul, to another, and that had kept him from bodily quenching his thirst of her too. No man could live through that and preserve his sanity. But she was at last here for him and he had to have her now; every second apart from her only served to set aching, unendurable strain on his mind and body.

His hands dropped lower, parting her thighs, his fingers stroking her hidden flesh so briefly that Scarlett didn't have time to decide whether she should cry in protest or arch into his touch once more. It was only to make sure she was not completely unprepared, for he didn't have—they didn't have time for anything else now. His hands fumbled with the buttons of his pants for a few seconds and then returned between her legs, reaching for the backside of her thighs to elevate and open her. She was silent and still, barely daring to breathe, and he stopped for a second in mid-air to give her a brief reassuring kiss before thrusting into her deep, hard and fierce.

At the intrusion, Scarlett's hands closed like claws on his shoulders, her body arching tightly in his embrace. She let out a strangled gasp, closing her eyes, rolling her head back until it rested against the hard, reassuring surface of the door and Rhett muffled his own groan in the hollow at the base of her throat, with his forehead resting against her chin, his every breath burning in the soft dip between her collarbones.

For a few seconds neither of them moved. They were enjoying these first moments together with their eyes closed, separately, despite the most intimate physical connection that bonded them now—the strange picture of a fully clothed husband that found taking his naked wife against her bedroom door more natural than look her in the eye, made even stranger by the fact the said wife seemed to completely share in that feeling and avoid his gaze.

But then the urgency of impending release came upon them, breaking the stillness, and he began to move inside her, his rhythm strong and steady, his every plunge deeper than the last, sliding her naked body up and down the smooth wooden surface. He had guided Scarlett to wrap her slender legs around his waist and his hands were supporting her bottom, but it was still not enough for her to feel safe in this position and she leaned forward, her upper back breaking contact with the door to lean against his torso, as she linked her arms tightly around his neck, hiding her face between the collar of his unbuttoned shirt and his skin.

And though it impeded his motions to a degree, this shift in her position only served to spur him further. The weight of her against him, the firmness of her breasts pressed to his chest through his shirt, her breathing on his neck, warm and erratic, the way she clutched him, needing him, trusting him—it was a blend of sensations that made him lose control and he couldn't dominate his violent ardor more than one could rein in the wild sweep of a storm. It had simply been too long and the familiar longing, the raw, unquenchable need for her consumed him even now that he was buried deep inside her, that he was as close to her as he could ever get.

His thrusts were gaining momentum despite the hindrance her clinging so desperately to him posed; they came fierce and fast—faster even, reaching the point he was pounding so hard he feared he'd hurt her and with a supreme effort of his will he stopped mid-stroke to try to read her body's reactions to all this.

He thought he'd heard throaty, hungry moans in his ear; he thought he'd felt Scarlett's moist lips against his neck and her teeth sinking in his shoulder more than once, but in the frenzy of the moment it had all blurred together and his alcohol dazed mind couldn't be sure of anything and least of all of whether it had been pleasure and not pain what had motivated her responses. He needed to know.

And then she raised her head from his shoulder and their eyes locked and Rhett had his answer, for in her gaze there was the same unmistakable want and hunger that he could feel burning in his entire body. Scarlett seemed to hesitate for a second before putting her hands on each side of his face and kissing him, shyly at first, but then increasingly daring till the point her lips coaxed his own open and she tasted his mouth of her own accord; and then the subdued motion of his hips changed into a frantic, unstoppable pace again and he realized, with an odd pang, mixture of anticipation and regret, that this wouldn't last much longer now, that release was closing in on them.

The ache inside him rose to excruciating intensity and he was barely aware that Scarlett had broken the kiss, that she was dragging her lips across his cheeks and forehead in small, desperate kisses, that she was whispering inaudible things against his skin. But he could not focus on her actions now, for they threatened to tip him over the edge without her. He had already entered the eye of the storm, the bittersweet moment before full gratification when the mind realizes that fulfillment of pleasure only means the subsequent death of pleasure, and yet the blind, oblivious senses charge in a battle that's meant to be lost. And he didn't want this to be over.

He wanted to prolong it, not as much for the moment itself, for he knew he would, no matter what, take her again tonight, but because he hoped that in a few seconds she would return her trail of kisses from his ear to his mouth and he could catch glimpse of her face again, peer into her unguarded eyes in the minute of her surrender. For he had the feeling he had missed something before when their gazes had met, that there had been more for him there and he needed to take a second look now, before the irretrievable moment slipped through his fingers, to possibly never be followed by another.

But it was too late. Scarlett's entire body, down to her small feet pressed hard against his lower back, tensed and then started to violently convulse, her hands clutching at his shoulders, her head buried in his neck as it had been before, nestled between his skin and the now damp fabric of his shirt. She only shouted his name once before clenching her jaws, he couldn't tell if on purpose or not, to only let out obstinate, panting breaths, quaking silently in his embrace.

Moved by an uncontrollable impulse, he started to speak low, smothered words in her hair; pouring fast, beyond control, words that he knew she could neither clearly hear, nor entirely understand, words he himself could not make complete sense of, but that kept pushing the boundaries of his mind to spill forth, like the physical tension tested the limits of his body for release. Of what this did to him, of what the last years had done to him, to his flesh, to his mind. Of bitter, mute craving. Of her, of her body and of her hard, unattainable soul, that still taunted and eluded his grasp when everything else yielded to his power. Of Ashley even, of pride and concealment, and then again of this, of having her now, of being inside her. Of possession.

She never looked up during her thrill, as he had wanted, as he had silently willed her to, but the fleeting sense of loss left his mind rapidly, for her hungry spasms triggered his own release and he closed his eyes, washed by what had to be the most intense moment his body—and soul—had ever lived, as far as the realm of both his memory and imagination stretched. And it all—his rage and jealousy, longing and restraint—converged into one white-hot flame licking its almost painful way through his veins and then leaving his body through all pores. The past was behind him as well.

Still shivering in the wake of her spent fervor, Scarlett received the last slamming of his hips against her and then his familiar warmth, as he too cried out her name once, in a hoarse voice, to then be silent, his body lunging forward, pinning her heavily against the door.

And stillness descended upon them, his heavy breaths the only thing breaking it, every intake seeming to bring more and more of his weight down on Scarlett, to progressively crush her to the door. Between the vanishing heat of alcohol and the exertion of fulfillment, Rhett's legs had started to give way, and it took the greatest mental effort and the support of the hard surface behind them for him to continue to sustain his own weight and his wife's limp body, that was now too weak to even cling to his waist and shoulders like before.

Scarlett sighed his name once and then slowly raised her head from the crook of his neck, moving in the small space between Rhett and the wood to try to read his countenance in the dark. She couldn't entirely make out his expression, because his forehead rested against the door, but she could discern the lower contours of his face, frozen halfway between a smile and what to her resembled more a grimace of pain. And she suddenly wished she could look into his eyes, because she had never before seen him like this, almost defenseless, and she couldn't grasp what it meant. If it was the cue for attack or for reaching out to him, or for something else beyond her comprehension but that Rhett knew, as he always did. If only he looked down and then she would know too…

He did not look down. At the raspy sound of her voice, he remained still for the span of another breath and then she could see him swallowing hard, composing his features to a degree. And for a moment, she felt a desperate, inexplicable need to stop him from this. For a moment, she felt like reaching up and kissing him, his lips, his chin, like she had done before, anything to keep him in this sheltered, unguarded halo their intimacy had created. But by now the last vestiges of passion had given way to a sated torpor, rapidly cooling into normality, and she somehow hesitated to touch him again.

And then the moment was gone, and so was her reluctance, because Rhett released her, he lowered her to the floor and she found she had to hold on to him, because her own legs were too shaky for support. She seemed to continue to sway in a way that was embarrassingly reminiscent of his thrusts just minutes before, as if her entire body still throbbed in wait of his return.

"Land sickness, my dear?" he whispered huskily, amusedly and his words, though devoid of any meaning for Scarlett's hazy mind, made it clear that he was back to his usual self.

She suddenly recalled that, while Rhett still had his clothes on, she was completely undressed in front of him and started to bring one of her arms over her nakedness, shivering involuntarily at the thought that all this while she had been the one stripped of her defenses, physically and mentally, and, even worse, she alone had wanted the moment of surrender to last. He—he was, and probably had been, fully clothed and mocking. But this train of thought did not have time to ripe to fury and the bitterness of hurt pride, for something unexpected happened.

Something unexpected in the form of Rhett's shirt—that she had crumpled so desperately in her fists before, that she had bit and kissed—being silently placed on her shoulders. He had somehow read her thoughts, and removed the garment, the last buttons flying, one of the cufflinks already lost earlier in their encounter, the other nearly ripped from the fabric. He had removed the garment and placed it around her, holding it one inch away from her skin to give her time to slip into it, and she sneaked her arms into the sleeves with the shy smile and obedience of a child.

She had been wrong about this man in so many aspects already, and not even now was she sure that she understood him, as he gathered her to his chest once more, still standing like awkward, half-dressed statues in front of her bedroom door. After the passion of before, after the fire, he was now holding her in an embrace that seemed more friendly than anything else, and for some reason he didn't go any further than that. He didn't move his hands on her body; he didn't lower his lips to her hair.

And in a way she had expected all that, and she was disappointed, though she well knew it never paid off to build expectations around Rhett, because he would bring them down every time like the sea would sand castles. He had been rough and fierce when he was supposed to be polite and detached, but gentle when she had expected him to be harsh and mocking. He had belittled her when she felt she had the right to be taken into consideration, but he was making her feel good and warm in times when she saw herself as dirt.

And now—now, after all that happened tonight, she didn't have the strength to even be dual about his actions, to retain some shred of prideful reticence at his demeanor. She only felt relief and peace at being here, and raising her head from his embrace, she lightly kissed his chest, where her cheek had felt his still irregular heartbeat. And then Rhett's arms finally tightened around her, lifting her off the ground again, and they made their way to her bed, in the dark.

Well, hope you enjoyed the ride. There might be more to come for this story or other smutty one shots. Thanks for reading, G.