Say the Bells of St. Clement's
Author's note: In all honesty, I couldn't decide how to end this strange sprawling story, so here's a short "wedding night" chapter I threw together. It isn't incredibly graphic. It might bump up the rating to an "R," but I'm not sure. It's about as sexy as I get. I normally don't do smut-unless it involves Davender, of course (it's funny if you know what Davender is). So please, no complaints. My fragile, unbalanced Tonksian ego can only handle so much…
Oh, and on a side note, I don't use their names because I liked the idea that maybe it's not them, that I'm not violating the sanctity of P&P with a bunch of sweaty groping.
Since this is my absolutely last author's note, I'll…well…I'll just trail off into a patented fit of random Magpie rambling. After all, it's my space to say whatever I want…It's my domain. My kingdom. There are no characters to hide behind; there's no nonsensical Tonksian need to spout strange and endlessly amusing extended metaphors …so here it goes…the real Magpie…wild and wonderful and unfiltered… The real Magpie. Really real… Really really real…and…um…real…um…well…of course…I really don't have anything of substance to say… soooo…. yeah…hummm…now I'm getting bored…really really really bored…I miss my metaphors…and now I'm tired…and hungry…
Oh puck it…I'll just thank everyone for going on this literary outing with me. It started as a flicker that grew into a fire that managed to consume a good portion of my free time. Looking back over the last dozen or so chapters, I still say my favorite parts are the wildly irrelevant Tonksian rants. Somehow I think I've found my literary soul mate in that crazy-little-engine-that-can't. So again, thanks for reading.
I wish I could leave off with a beautiful Thomas Gray quote. Or maybe I'll just subtly fold it into the text. Maybe you wonderful readers will realize that it's a quote that's relevant not only for the characters but for all writers everywhere…then again, maybe not…either way…I'm going to stop typing.
Oh, and my next story's going to be a good-old-fashioned murder mystery straight from the school of Agatha Christie. After all, it's a natural progression from Shakespeare to Austen to Christie. At least I think so…then again, I think Tonks would make the best detective in all the history of detecting. So what do I know?
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
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Dark rain clouds drifted through the night sky allowing only scant traces of moonlight to shine on the seaside town below. Anyone with an ounce of sense had taken refuge indoors. Anyone… except for the two young people who were hurrying up the steps of Godric's Hollow.
The woman, or the girl really, had her unruly curls pinned up in an elegant bun. A ring of baby's breath formed a crown amongst the hazelnut-colored ringlets. She was wearing a delicate wedding dress trimmed with antique lace and crystals beads. Laughing, she tried to keep up with her new husband. One hand was holding his arm while the other tried to keep her dress from dragging on the damp cobblestones.
Her husband was a tall, broad-shouldered man with raven hair. He gave a boyish grin and lifted his wife over a mud puddle that was pooling by the steps to the front door. As he lowered her to the ground she whispered something in his ear that made him laugh and pull her into a tight hug. That's when he noticed that several of her ringlets had fallen out of the intricate crown of flowers. His hands itched to touch them as he watched the glossy curls lightly bounce around her lovely white shoulders. It suddenly dawned on him that the girl he was holding was, in fact, his wife.
"Hello Mrs.-----," he whispered against her cheek.
His new wife beamed. It was the second time today someone called her that. His was decidedly more musical than the vicar's.
"Hello Mr. ------," she murmured as he cradled her to his chest. She curled her arms around his neck and gave him a lingering kiss as rain began to fall in sheets around them. Her husband ran his fingers through her hair, tracing a feathery trail down the back of her neck. She closed her eyes, drinking in the marvelous sensations that his touch caused.
Kissing her temple, he asked her whether she wanted to go back.
"Are you joking?" Her voice nearly gave out as he planted light kisses along her jaw
He chuckled. "You didn't like the reception?"
His wife shivered as he kissed her temple again. "Not really…Tonks was drunk. And Draco lobbed a firecracker curse at Ron's head…"
"I remember," he muttered, running his lips over her neck.
She sighed his name as her head fell back. "We should…mmmm…." she hummed in contentment and trailed off.
"We should what?"
"Go inside…it's …it's starting to pour…"
Without another word, he scooped her up and kicked open the front door to their spansive home.
She shouted his name, laughing as a few fat raindrops followed them indoors.
"I have to carry you over the threshold. It's tradition."
Stifling her laughter, she struggled until he set her on her feet. She ducked away from his grasp and darted into a dark hallway. Rounding the corner into the great hall, she stopped in her tracks.
"Oh my…" she gasped, suddenly speechless.
The whole of the household was alight with floating candles. Hundreds of them were drifting through the air. They even floated out onto the alcove and danced over the ocean, sending their soft amber light over the swells of the waves. The large windows overlooking the ocean caught the light and cast their own swirling reflections in the dark glass ornaments lining the walls.
"Do you like it?" he asked, wrapping his arms around her waist, bringing her snugly against him. He hooked
his chin over her shoulder, taking in her vanilla scent.
"Goodness…" she breathed. "It's beautiful."
"Mmmmm. You're welcome," her husband hummed as he leaned over, gently nuzzling his cheek against hers. Her eyes drifted shut as his lips grazed her ear. She felt his hand dance along her neck and down to the small of her back. She leaned into the caress, daring him to move his palm to the curve of her breast
"Shall I show you the house, Mrs. -------?"
"I've seen the house," she sighed, enjoying the feel of his hands.
"You haven't seen your room," he muttered, kissing her cheek. He found that it was impossible to stop touching her as he led her up the grand staircase. On the way, they managed to collapse in each other's arms for a few desperate kisses. Nearly twenty minutes passed before they stopped in front of a row of closed doors.
Her heart beating wildly, she pulled him to her for another ardent kiss, clutching at him as he opened the door to the darkened room. She turned, expecting to see her husband's bedroom for the first time.
Her smile faded as she looked around. Even though the only light came from a small fireplace, she could tell it was a lovely room. Decorated in soft cream colors, it had grand window with figures of birds and butterflies cut into the glass… but it was a woman's room.
"Do you like it?" he whispered as his mouth grazed her shoulder.
"This isn't your room," she replied, trying to mask her disappointment.
"It's yours." His lips found her cheek. "Do you like it?"
"It's very pretty," she said, puzzled. But it isn't your room…
"I thought you might want a rest."
"A rest?" She shook her head and pulled away from his encircling arms.
He nodded. Lupin told him that most men gave their wives "time" on their wedding night. Time for what, he couldn't say. But the young groom didn't want his wife to feel rushed into anything. His bride however, didn't seem appreciative as he explained that they'd had a busy day and that she might want a brief respite.
"Oh…all right," she conceded, not sure why he wanted her to sit in her room alone on their wedding night.
He kissed her gently on the cheek, told her he's see her later on, and made his way to his own room across the hall.
Still confused, the bride stood a moment in the doorway, wondering what just happened.
A rest? What in the world is he thinking? She shook her head, amazed. The last thing she needed was sleep.
Looking around the room, she took in her surroundings for the first time. It was a cozy space. Cream-colored curtains cascaded over the large canopy bed and a vase full of white jasmine was artfully placed on a dainty writing table. The room had towering vaulted ceilings and moldings with carved roses that framed the large windows overlooking the ocean. Sweeping shadows and moonlight poured through the pale curtains that were moving with a silent breeze.
Shaking her head, she made her way to the window and looked out. An outstretched ocean view greeted her. She couldn't imagine a prettier room. It was obvious a lot of work had gone into making it as comfortable as it was. A cursory glance through the wardrobe showed dozens of new gowns, probably purchased in London, and a quick look at the vanity revealed a jewelry box overflowing with emerald-encrusted trinkets.
Standing in front of the vanity mirror, she slipped out her damp shoes and carefully brushed her hair, combing out the crown of baby's breath that dotted her glossy curls. She didn't bother checking the bed or the bureau; she somehow knew that everything would've been to her liking. It was obvious that no expense was spared…but she wasn't interested in any of that right now.
Did her husband really think she needed time to "rest"? She thought, incredulous. It was almost funny in a way. He was really too thoughtful for his own good. On any other night it would've been endearing.
Straightening her gown (and mustering more confidence than she had) she took a deep breath and decided on her course of action. She calmly walked across the candlelit hallway and sharply knocked on his bedroom door.
There was no answer. She called his name and knocked again. She heard a faintly surprised "come in" and pulled the latch.
The room she found herself in was dark and very masculine. Green and black stripes covered the walls. The giant bed had green and black silk linens, which matched the expensive-looking rug on the floors. And there, standing in the middle of the room, was her new husband; his hair still wet and clad only in his white dress shirt and dark slacks. He'd shed his damp shoes and soaking waistcoat and set them to dry next to the giant fireplace. Champagne was chilling in a stand; he was holding two glasses, apparently just setting them out.
She had no idea how she appeared in the doorway: her hair halfway tumbling down, her dress flowing loosely around her. He stared at her. He couldn't not stare at her; she looked unbearably lovely in the iridescent firelight. Somewhere, a draft sent the billowing fabric of her dress floating around her in an unearthly way. If there had been more light, she would've seen that he was gripping the flutes so tightly, his knuckles were white.
"Where are the servants?" she asked quietly, never taking her eyes away from his.
"They're…" he swallowed hard. He hadn't even opened the champagne, but he suddenly felt drunk. "They're probably off celebrating. They didn't know we'd be here so soon..."
"Oh."
Without another word, she padded across the floor. Her eyes were round with innocence as she stopped in front of him and turned around.
"Help me," she said softly, motioning to the ties of her dress.
Champagne forgotten, he set the flutes at the edge of the bed as he untied her bodice, carefully unbraiding the silky ties with shaky fingers. The dress slipped off her shoulders, pooling at her feet and revealing a lacey slip that went down to her knees. The shadow of her curves shown against the caressing firelight. She turned slowly, her dark brown eyes boring into his.
"Thank you," she whispered, not bothering to pick up her dress.
She took a step towards him, ignoring the champagne flutes that fell to the floor.
"You shouldn't…" he started.
"Shouldn't what?" she breathed, fingering his collar.
By way of an answer, he stroked her cheek, running his thumb over her parted lips. His other hand came to rest on the curve of her hip. He could feel the warmth of her skin through the flimsy material of the slip. He leaned forward, kissing her shoulder, almost afraid to do anything else.
She sighed his name as her head fell back. It was physically painful how much she was enjoying this.
"You shouldn't…" he repeated softly against her throat. His hand found the small of her back, bringing her impossible closer.
"Shouldn't what?" She felt her hair tumble down around her shoulders as his hands combed through her loose ringlets. Her eyes drifted shut as his lips hesitantly brushed against hers. His kisses were gentle and undemanding, merely light warm fluttering against her mouth. Her slip bunched in his hands as he gathered her to him, careful not to crush her as he continued his brief caresses.
She tried to lengthen the kisses, pressing her lips against his as he grazed her mouth, however, for some reason he resisted, pulling back each time. His wife said his name with a breathy sigh. She pressed herself to him, searching for more contact, trying to get closer, trying encourage his embraces. Her body flush against his, she could feel the hard planes of his stomach against her soft curves. She whispered a muffled "please" against his mouth and whatever control he'd had, he suddenly lost.
Gripping the back of her neck, he gave her jagged, uneven kisses. His mouth plundering, his hands wandering, he tugged on the two wispy straps holding up her slip, pulling them down so he could kiss her bare shoulders. Her slip fell dangerously low over the swell of her bosom. As he kissed his way down her front, his wife gasped at the new contact. She gripped his hair, her fingers getting tangled in the onyx strands as he kissed the soft curve of her breast.
"I can't stop," he said gently, there was a raw tone to his voice.
"Neither can I," she answered with a gasp. She rested her cheek against his shoulder, trying to calm her hitching breaths.
He rested his forehead against hers, trying to steady himself. "Tell me to stop now."
"Don't stop," she begged, pressing herself against him. A sob caught in her throat as scenes from the last few weeks suddenly flashed before her: the two of them, huddled behind curtains, locked in a heady kiss only having to break apart at the sound of footsteps; meeting him in a dark room during a dinner party, only to have him push her away, gasping, apologizing, always embarrassed, flushed, panting, frustrated, wanting more, wanting him…
Her fingers fluttered over his body, feeling the planes of muscles hidden under his shirt. Batting his hands away, she
began to undo the buttons. Her eyes never left his as the shirt slowly slid off his shoulders and fell to the floor.
Lowering her gaze, her breath caught in her throat as she saw his bare chest for the first time. Smooth and impossibly
pale in the moonlight, he reminded her of one of the chiseled marble statues in the east garden. She reached out shyly
to touch the hard lines of his abdomen and felt him tense at her touch. Leaning forward, she brushed her lips against
his shoulder, planting feathery kisses along his collarbone while her hands danced over his cool skin.
He tastes like rainwater, she muttered, smiling a secret smile as she heard his breathing quicken as she ran her hands over the planes of his back and around to the front of his trousers. In one deft movement, she boldly undid the clasp before slowly raising her eyes to his. Something in his intensity of his stare sent shivers down her spine and set off a tingling sensation in her stomach. She thought she said his name, but she couldn't be sure as he lifted her to him and captured her mouth.
Her breath hitching in her chest, she clutched at him while he lowered her onto the soft bed. A soft sigh merged with a throaty moan as he cupped her cheek. Soon their lips were pressed against each other as she gave herself over to the kiss.
A hot pulse shaking her to her core, she desperately wrapped her arms around him. His hands danced over the hot skin of her calf and up to the back of her thighs. She felt his own ragged breathing against her skin as he kissed her shoulder, then her neck, then down to the curve of her breast.
Suddenly, she felt him pause in his caresses. A blush rose in her cheeks when she looked down at him. She couldn't see his expression in the shadows, but somehow she understood. She nodded weakly to the unasked question, trying to tell him how much she wanted this, but all she could do was pull him to her and curl her arms around his neck as they shared an impossibly deep kiss. His mouth fused with hers, his hands raking over her, she lost herself to the sensations he was creating as she said his name over and over like a prayer.
Her last coherent thought was how much she loved him. She made a Herculean effort to tell him, but it came out as a wanton moan as his hands danced along her thighs. She felt his fingers drift over the last lacy scraps of clothing separating them. She whispered something incoherent when he settled over her and enfolded his hand in hers. A moan emanated low in her throat as he slid his other arm around her waist and held on tight as he pressed against her. Gasping at the strange new contact, she writhed under him while tingles ran up and down her spine. Soon it was impossible to tell where one began and the other ended as they both tumbled towards oblivion.
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Moonlight poured through the giant windows, shining down on two figures resting peacefully on green silk covers. Their legs were tangled and their arms were around each other; the only thing covering them was the light sheen of sweat on their bare skins. They shared several long, lingering kisses until the fire began to die down and a draft drifted in from the dark corners of the room. They folded the covers over them and huddled against each other, whispering promises and sweet things until sleep finally overtook them.
The young man dreamed about his wife that night. Waking up periodically to make sure she was still there (that it
hadn't in fact, all been a dream), he drifted in and out of sleep, thinking about how warm she felt against him,
how incredible it was just to be sleeping next to her. He began to regret giving her her own room…
His wife slept peacefully that night, unspeakably content just to be curled up in his arms. She never would sleep in that beautiful room her husband had arranged for her. Somehow they would always find an excuse for her to sleep in his bed.
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Miles away, at a grand banquet hall, a hundred wedding guests were wondering where the newlyweds had gone. As a joke, the matron of honor raised a glass and toasted the absent couple. Of course her "toast" was nothing more than a dirty limerick about fumbling newlyweds, and the room erupted in laughter. The black-haired jokester took a few bows, but motioned for silence as the bride's older sister stood up and quietly offered her own toast. It was part of a poem she'd memorized weeks before. At the time it struck her as strangely suitable for the young couple:
Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;
Along the cool sequester'd vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
She was met with some polite applause (and much head-scratching from a red-haired groomsman). Champagne corks suddenly started to pop and her words were soon forgotten. No one knew how true they would prove to be.
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The End