"There are endless worlds out there. Countless ways to declare love. Infinite ways to express it. Too much for one night.. but we shall try."

The astral scene is him trying. He multiplies as he refuses to let go your hand. He caresses every part of your mind, body, and soul. Gale tries desperately to sear every fiber of your being, of the one he loves onto his own soul. He wants to feel everything you do, and the weave is capable of that.

"Your bodies and minds weave together in a masterpiece of intimacy. Never have you felt such wonder, such love - as vast as the universe itself, and just as heavenly. "

You are one and the same that night. Where Gale ends and you begin is a mystery; he is lost in you and you in him.

"We are all sensual vessels. Illusory magic lets us sail farther, and feel more deeply."

The scene is beautiful, both narratively and visually. This is not a man trying to use magic to demonstrate his worth so you won't leave him. This is a man trying to use magic to weave a tapestry from two spools of thread in one night. It's ok to let him do so. It's also ok to remind him he doesn't need to. Whichever feels right in that moment is the right choice.

They all end in giving Gale renewed hope. Magic was merely the medium on which it blossomed and thrived. Whether from a bed of stars or a bed conjured under it, your love is what gave it life.

As Gale steps into the room, a copy of Azebin Jeqor’s Ars Magicka very nearly glances off his head. The projectile is swiftly followed by a cry of “Oh Gods Gale, I’m so sorry! Did I hit you?” He bends to retrieve the book, checking it over for damage before turning to Roslyn, who has spirited herself towards him and is hovering about him with frantic concern. He places a swift kiss to her forehead “I’m fine dearest, though I do strongly object to you attempting to pulverize the only surviving copy of one of the greatest treatises on conjuration ever put to parchment”, he gives her a look which he hopes is stern, one that he often gives his students, but he can tell from the smile she is only barely biting back that it’s a lost cause. “I’m sorry” she says, batting her lashes at him. He sighs and goes to the bookshelf to return the tome to a place that is safely out of Roslyn’s reach. “May I ask what inspired you to throw it?” He suspects he already knows the answer. Roslyn has collapsed onto the settee in the corner of the room. She chews absentmindedly at her thumbnail. “Tedious” she harrumphs. “Ah” he smiles, “I take it the summoning spell Jeqor outlines is proving more challenging than you anticipated?” He settles himself next to her and she drapes her bare legs over him.

He runs his hand along her calves, her skin is warm and soft and he notes with no small amount of interest that she is wearing, what to his mind is the most perfect, if entirely impractical item of clothing ever created. It is a burnt orange silk slip, which sets off the pale pearlescence of Roslyn’s complexion and leaves perilously little to the imagination. The day he bought it for her she joked that she loved it so much she’d never take it off. She’d slipped it on and stepped out from behind the ornate changing screen she’s propped in the corner of their room. The sight of her, glowing and delighted and achingly beautiful had him half hard before she even laid a hand on him. “Leave it on.” He’d growled in a voice so full of hunger that Roslyn had blushed. His hand twitches involuntarily at the memory of silk beneath his hands and his lips against her throat as he’d thrusted up into her.

He’s shaken from his musings by Roslyn’s disconsolate sigh. She’s gazing mournfully at the ceiling. “If it’s any consolation Ros, it took me almost a week to master that spell” he smiles. She laughs softly “that’s no consolation at all Gale” she closes her eyes “I’ve been at it for nearly a month”. She sits up abruptly, swings her legs off him and goes to stand in the centre of the room. She speaks the incantation. Her enunciation is clear and the quick decisive flick of her wrist is perfectly timed. Still, the porcelain vase which she had placed on the small table on the balcony a month before remains resolutely in place. He frowns, crosses the room, comes to stand behind her. “Try it again”, he observes more carefully this time, taking note of her stance, watching the careful way she summons up the weave before releasing it. The vase stays put. She turns to him with her fists balled “why isn’t it working?” her tone sharp with impatience and frustration. He paces slowly around her, “are you focusing on the vase?” he asks. “Yes!” She snaps exasperatedly, “that bloody vase is all I think about! I can sketch the pattern around the lip from memory, I know how much it weighs, I know it’s exact dimensions, I know-“. He cuts her off “therein, my dearest one, is the source of the problem.”

She is scandalised “I’m trying to summon the vase Gale. I think it’s probably helpful to focus on it”. He comes to stand in front of her “Ros, you have more innate magical ability than most wizards could ever hope to wield” he pushes back her dark tangled curls and cups her face in his hands “but you have yet to learn that you cannot approach spell work with sheer stubbornness”. She groans “you’re making even less sense that that bloody book.” Her eyes are fixed on the vase and she shifts her stance, about to try again, but he steps behind her, wraps an arm around her waist and bends to her ear “try focusing on yourself, not on the vase” he whispers. “What?” she snaps. He grazes the side of her neck with the back of his hand. “Relax, stop trying to force it.” She sighs, then turns to look at him over her shoulder. “Yes professor” she says sardonically rolling her eyes, but all the same, her voice is pitched ever so slightly higher.

“Close your eyes, good. Now breathe in. Hold it. And breathe out.” She does as instructed. “Keep your eyes closed” He says softly “and don’t move”. He presses a lingering kiss to the back of her neck, breathes in something like honey and spice, the ineffable scent of her. She shudders. “Do you trust me Ros?” He murmurs against her neck. She nods. He moves to stand in front of her, presses a kiss to each closed eyelid and then kneels.

“Have you ever wondered” he asks, lifting her right leg and propping it on his shoulder “why wizards are so insufferably arrogant?” He kisses the inside of her knee. She clears her throat “Frequently, yes” she replies. He trails kisses along her the soft skin of her inner thigh. “Well I’ll tell you a secret Ros, a hard earned trick of the trade. Contrary to popular belief, Wizard’s don’t exert their will through the weave” he bunches the fabric of her slip in his hands, lifts it higher, exposing even more of her to him. “Magic is much more akin to a dance, between two partners who are intimately familiar” he reaches the apex of her thighs and inhales deeply. Roslyn suppresses a little whine “A wizard trusts their partner will follow their lead, even through the most complex of dances. They don’t watch their partner’s footwork, they focus on their own” He looks up at her, her cheeks are already flushed and her breath is coming faster. He smiles “Any decent wizard knows, that they needn’t force anything, they need only trust that the object of their desire’s will come to them”. He flattens his tongue against her core and suppresses a smile as she moans.

His eyes flick to her face, she is looking down at him, mouth agape “Keep your eyes closed Ros”. She does as he asks and he buries his face deeper between her thighs.

He laps at her slowly, methodically, His nose bumps against her clit and her fingers come to tangle in his hair, urging him on.

He notices that she is hovering slightly, trying to keep her weight off him. No, he thinks, that won’t do. He reaches around and grips her left thigh and pulls her down firmly and decisively. “Gale” she sighs. He’s already hard, but she speaks his name and he wonders, and not without justification, if that alone will tip him over the edge.

He traces circles around her clit, he knows it is almost, but not quite enough to undo her. He wants to ruin her completely. He wants to coax from her those noises that he loves so much. He wants her to come undone on his tongue over and over again. He wants her under him; insensible,shuddering, and sated. He wants all of this, all of her, all of the time, with a ferocity that would frighten him if he didn’t see that same hunger mirrored in her eyes. He pulls away for a moment “Are you still focusing on the vase?” He pants “No, Gods no, don’t stop”. She whimpers. As if he needs to be told, as if he has any intention of stopping. All the same, hearing her ask for it, beg for it so sweetly, stokes a fire in him.

He squeezes the trembling thigh propped on his shoulder and she moans, loudly and shamelessly. “Gale I’m close, I’m so close, I’m so close” she chants and he knows she is, he can taste it, sweet and perfect on his tongue. He hums against her and suddenly she is crying his name brokenly and then he is holding her up and then she is laughing in disbelief.

He looks up at her, she is holding the vase. He grins. Roslyn turns it over in her hands bemused “Did you know that would work?” She asks, her cheeks are flushed so prettily and she looks so very happy that he can’t help but smile wider. “It was, I’ll admit, a novel and highly experimental approach” he says struggling to his feet.