Bill can't remember ever wanting to do anything more.

As his lips meet hers their clothing fairly flies off them: gown and tuxedo and garters and veil and dress shirt and vest and tie and trousers fold themselves neatly on a corner chair. Her bouquet settles into a vase, but neither of them really pays any mind to any of this.

Fleur wants satisfied; he'll make certain she's satisfied.

(He's good at that.)

With a flick of his hand the lights dim.

And everything else... there is no everything else. There's only Fleur.