The fire in the hearth had burned down to glowing embers, casting a warm, dim orange light across the study walls lined with centuries of magical theory. Usually, this time of night was reserved for quiet reading or perhaps a glass of wine on the balcony, but tonight, the curriculum had shifted to something far more practical—and infinitely more distracting.

Gale sat comfortably in his high-backed armchair, one leg crossed over the other, looking every bit the distinguished Professor of Blackstaff Academy, were it not for the fact that you were currently draped over his lap, face buried in a cushion, wearing nothing but a pair of lace panties.

The air in the room was thick with a playful, heavy tension. His large, warm hand rested possessively on the small of your back, his thumb tracing slow, soothing circles against your skin—a stark contrast to the sharp smack that had echoed through the room only moments ago.

"That was incorrect, again, my love," Gale murmured, his voice dropping an octave into that commanding, professorial tone that he knew made your breath hitch. "I distinctly remember covering the properties of Weave stabilization in volatile environments just last Tuesday over breakfast. You weren’t listening, were you?"

He sounded stern, but the fondness in his gaze was undeniable as he looked down at the curve of your spine. He adored this. He adored the trust you placed in him, the flush of pink on your skin, and the way you melted against him even as he chastised you.

His hand lifted from your back, hovering for a split second—a silent warning that sent a shiver down your legs—before descending in another firm, stinging swat against your soft flesh.

Thwack.

As you let out a muffled yelp into the cushion, his hand immediately settled back down, rubbing the stinging spot with a firm, heated pressure to soothe the burn. He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, his beard tickling your skin.

"Shh, hush now," he whispered against your ear, his tone shifting instantly from strict tutor to doting husband. "You're doing purely... well, you're doing terribly at the quiz, to be honest, but you look absolutely ravishing while failing."

He waited until your breathing evened out, his fingers gently kneading your hip.

"Ready for the next one?" he asked, his voice laced with amusement. "Question number four: For a standard Counterspell to be effective against a dual-cast Evocation, which somatic component must be prioritized? Is it the Verbal intonation or the Somatic wrist-flick? And think carefully this time, darling. My palm is starting to itch."