#cheating trope

Moth To A Flame

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Female reader (+Lando Norris) Word count: 4.3k Summary: You belong to Lando, but, like a moth to a flame, you keep going back to Oscar. Even if it destroys everything else. Tags: cheating trope, angst, 18+ content, smut, intercourse, fingering, possessive! Oscar, shitty cheating behavior lmao... A/N: I'm not a big fan of the cheating trope, sorry, but I tried. So I hope you enjoy it <3

The McLaren paddock is buzzing the way it always does before a race, engineers running around, cameras flashing, fans pressed against barriers. It should feel normal to you by now.

Except nothing feels normal anymore. Not with Oscar here. Not with the way he looks at you. Not with the things you’ve done with him when Lando wasn’t around.

Lando has an arm around your waist as you walk in. He’s smiling, joking with some mechanics, oblivious to the way your stomach tightens when you spot Oscar coming down the corridor, race suit half-zipped.

He sees you instantly. His eyes flick down your body, then back up to your face, a single, slow sweep that sends heat straight to your core.

You look away first. You always look away first.

“Morning,” Oscar says, voice calm, neutral… but there’s something underneath it. Something only you hear.

“Morning!” Lando chirps, completely missing the way Oscar’s gaze lingers on your mouth for a beat too long.

“Hi,” you manage, hoping your voice doesn’t betray the way your memories of last night hit you like a punch; Oscar’s hands, Oscar’s breath, Oscar’s mouth on your neck whispering things he had no right to whisper.

Oscar hums in response, eyes cutting sideways at you like he can see those memories replaying in your head. Lando keeps talking about tire strategy, hand warm on your waist. Meanwhile, Oscar’s jaw tightens.

You shouldn’t enjoy the way he looks jealous. You really shouldn’t.

But God, you do.

He steps closer under the pretense of checking something on the timing screen behind you. Close enough that his arm brushes yours. Close enough that you feel the heat of him at your back.

“Did you sleep well?” Oscar asks casually, too casually, as he taps a random button on the screen.

Lando beams. “She knocked out early. Didn’t you, babe?”

You nod, lying through your teeth. Oscar’s mouth twitches.

“Oh, did she?” he murmurs, low enough only you hear. “Funny. I didn’t.”

Your entire body goes rigid, heartbeat spiking.

You can still hear his voice from last night: “You taste like you were made for me.” You can still feel the bruises he left on your hips.

Lando, oblivious, continues chatting while Oscar boldly, deliberately lets his fingers brush yours as he steps past. It’s such a tiny touch. So quick no camera would ever catch it. But you feel it everywhere.

Oscar leans closer as he passes behind you, his breath ghosting the shell of your ear. “Try to keep your focus today,” he whispers, voice quiet enough to make you shiver. “Wouldn’t want you looking distracted out there.”

You nearly choke. He walks off then, calm as ever, sliding into his usual pre-race rhythm like he didn’t just detonate your sanity.

Lando nudges you gently. “You okay? You look kind of flushed.”

You smile, forced, tight, guilty. “I’m fine. Just the heat.”

But your eyes drift to Oscar again.

And he’s watching you. Not even pretending he’s not.

And you know, God, you know, that no matter how sweet Lando is, no matter how much you tell yourself it’s wrong… you’ll always come back to Oscar.

Like a moth to a flame.

The hotel room door barely clicks shut before Lando speaks.

Not yells. Not snaps. Just speaks, tight, quiet, controlled in a way that’s so much worse.

“I watched the paddock replay,” he says, back still facing you as he sets his cap on the table. “From when Oscar won.”

Your stomach drops. “Okay…?”

He turns. And he looks tired. Not angry, but hurt, confused, trying to make sense of something he hates even thinking about.

“You looked really happy.” There’s a pause. “Too happy.”

You force a laugh. “Lan, come on. He’s your teammate—”

“I know,” he interrupts. “And maybe I’m being stupid. I probably am. But lately you’ve been distant. Harder to reach. You disappear for hours. And then today, when I saw your face when he crossed the line…” His voice cracks a little. “Just tell me if something’s going on. Please.”

You freeze. He’s not accusing. He’s pleading.

And that’s what finally breaks you. “There’s nothing going on,” you whisper. “I just… I’ve been stressed and tired about work. I’m sorry. I-I didn’t mean to be distant.”

Lie. You hate how naturally it comes out, how easily self-preservation overrides your guilt.

Lando stares at you for a long moment. You can see him weighing every sign he’s missed. Every moment he brushed off. Every instinct he talked himself out of.

And then he nods. “Okay,” he says softly. “Okay, sorry. I believe you. I-I don’t know what got into me.”

The guilt slams into you so violently you almost choke on it. He steps forward, reaches out, almost touches your arm, but stops himself, suddenly unsure.

“I love you,” he murmurs. “You know that, right?”

You swallow hard. “I know.”

But the words feel wrong. Heavy. Poisonous. You can’t even bring yourself to say it back.

That night, while Lando sleeps curled toward your empty side of the bed, you slip out of the room and walk down the hall.

Toward Oscar’s room.

Your fist hovers over his door for a long moment.

Three knocks. A pause. The door opens.

Oscar stands there, hair damp from a shower, T-shirt clinging to his still-warm skin, the faint scent of soap mixing with that familiar note of something darker. Something that always pulls you in before you even think to resist.

His eyes widen slightly. “Did he find out?”

You shake your head quickly. “No. But I’m ending this. Us. Whatever this is.”

Oscar doesn’t move aside. He just stares, unreadable. “Why?” he asks quietly.

“Because it’s wrong,” you whisper. “Because he’s good to me. Because I can’t keep doing this to him. Or to myself.”

Oscar’s jaw tightens, just a fraction. Enough to make your pulse jump.

He steps closer. “Does he touch you like I do?” His voice is low, dangerously calm. “Does he look at you the way I do? Like he’s starving for you?”

You shut your eyes. “Oscar, stop—”

“You keep coming back to me,” he presses, leaning in just enough that you feel the heat radiating off him. “Even when you swear it’s the last time.”

“That doesn’t make it right.”

“No,” he agrees softly. “It just makes it true.”

He reaches up, not touching, just hovering near your jaw, so close your skin tingles.

“If you really wanted to end it,” he murmurs, “you wouldn’t be shaking.”

You step back like his words physically hit you.

“Y-you don’t get to do this,” you whisper. “Not tonight.”

His expression fractures. The usually unreadable, controlled Oscar looks wrecked. “So he gets to keep you?” he murmurs. “Just like that?”

Your chest caves in. “This isn’t about ownership—”

“Then why does it sound like you’re choosing him?”

“Because he’s my boyfriend!” you cry. “And I can’t lie to him, not like this, not anymore—”

His laugh is humorless. “You’ve been lying for months.” Your breath stutters. He steps closer, voice dropping, low enough to crack your resolve open. “Tell me something,” Oscar says, head tilting. “When you’re with him… do you ever think about me?”

“Oscar—”

“Do you?” He whispers it like a secret. Like a sin.

You squeeze your eyes shut. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me.”

You’re trembling. He sees it. He always sees it.

“Oscar, please,” you breathe, “don’t make this harder.”

He moves then, not touching, not yet, but close enough that his breath ghosts over your cheek. “You came to say goodbye,” he murmurs, “but you can’t even look at me without falling apart.”

Your eyes snap open.

“And you expect me,” he continues, voice cracking with something dark and desperate, “to let you walk out? To watch you go back to him? After everything we’ve done? After the way you sound with me?”

“Oscar—”

His gaze drops to your lips. “Does he make you sound like that, mhm?”

Your knees buckle. He catches your wrist before you can step away, not forceful, not painful, just undeniable.

“And when he touches you…” Oscar’s thumb grazes your pulse. “Do you think about how I touch you instead?”

A shiver shoots through you. He notices. Of course he does.

He breathes a quiet, broken laugh. “God, you do.”

“That’s not fair,” you whisper.

“This isn’t fair,” he shoots back. “Nothing about this has ever been fair.”

You swallow hard. “We can’t do this again.”

He leans in, forehead brushing yours, voice barely a breath: “Then tell me to stop.”

Silence. You don’t. You can’t.

Your breathing stutters as he lifts a hand to cup your jaw, gently, reverently, the softest he’s touched you in weeks. His thumb traces your cheekbone, slow, trembling.

“Tell me you don’t want me,” he whispers.

You close your eyes, tears burning. “Oscar…”

“Tell me,” he pleads, voice breaking, “and I’ll let you walk out.”

Your lips part, but no words come out. Oscar exhales like he’s been stabbed.

And he kisses you. It’s supposed to be goodbye. It isn’t.

The kiss is slow at first, agonizingly slow, filled with every unsaid word, every stolen night, every bruise on your conscience. You lean into him helplessly, fingers gripping his shirt like you’re drowning.

Oscar groans softly into your mouth, relief, hunger, heartbreak tangled into one sound, and the kiss deepens, becomes desperate, becomes months of needing and wanting and holding back finally snapping.

Your back meets the wall. His hands slide to your waist. Yours tug him closer, pulling him in like gravity itself.

“Fuck,” you breathe against his lips, voice shaking, “I’m not supposed to let you do this to me.”

He doesn’t answer, because he’s kissing you again, like he’s starving, like you’re oxygen, like he’ll burn if he stops. His lips trail down your throat, slow, reverent, claiming, and your breath catches hard.

“Oscar…” you whisper, torn between guilt and desire and the unbearable pull toward him.

He lifts his head, eyes wild, pupils blown wide.

“You’re not his,” he says, voice rough. “Not really. Not where it counts.”

Your heartbeat stutters painfully.

“You’re mine,” he breathes, forehead against yours. “Even if only the two of us know it.”

Your knees weaken completely. And you kiss him again, a goodbye that isn’t goodbye at all, a final surrender before you break apart.

His hands are on you before the kiss even ends, sliding down your sides, gripping your hips like he’s memorizing the shape of you all over again. He pulls you from the wall, turning you both until the backs of your legs hit the edge of the bed. You fall back onto the mattress with a soft gasp, and he follows, hovering over you, his body a warm, solid weight that pins you in the most delicious way.

He breaks the kiss, but only just, his lips brushing yours as he speaks. "Look at you," he murmurs, his voice a low, possessive rumble that vibrates through your entire body. "So fucking beautiful. All flushed and trembling, and you haven't even been touched yet."

His eyes roam over you, dark and hungry, and you feel it like a physical touch. "Does he ever look at you like this? Like he wants to devour you?" He doesn't wait for an answer. He already knows.

His fingers find the hem of your shirt, and he toys with it, a ghost of a touch that makes you arch your back, a silent, desperate plea. "Patience," he chides softly, a smirk playing on his lips. "I'm going to take my time with you. I want you to remember this. I want you to feel me for days."

He finally pulls the shirt over your head, tossing it aside. His gaze drops, and the air in the room thickens. "Fuck," he breathes out, reverent. "Perfect. You're so fucking perfect." He leans down, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the hollow of your throat, then to the curve of your collarbone. His hands trace the lines of your ribs, his thumbs stroking the sensitive skin just below your breasts. "You have no idea what you do to me. No idea how hard I get just thinking about you."

His words are filthy, but his touch is worship. It's a dizzying combination that makes your head spin and your core ache. He unhooks your bra with practiced ease, his knuckles brushing against your skin, and you shiver. He takes his time, his eyes feasting on you before he lowers his head to take a nipple into his mouth.

A sharp cry escapes your lips as he sucks, his tongue swirling, his teeth grazing just enough to send a jolt of pleasure straight to your clit. "That's it," he groans against your skin. "Let me hear you. I love the sounds you make for me. God, he's never heard you like this, has he? This is just for me."

One hand continues to toy with your breast, rolling and pinching the peaked nipple, while his other hand slides down, down, down, tracing the waistband of your jeans. He pops the button, his knuckles pressing against your lower belly, and you buck your hips, needing more.

He makes quick work of your jeans and panties, stripping you bare until you're lying under him, completely exposed. He kneels between your legs, just looking, and the intensity in his eyes makes you feel like the most desired person on earth. "Spread your legs for me," he commands, his voice low and husky. "Let me see all of you."

You obey instantly, your knees falling open, a silent invitation. He groans, a deep, guttural sound of pure satisfaction. "So fucking wet for me already. And I've barely touched you." He runs a single finger through your slick folds, and you gasp, your hips jerking off the bed. "So responsive. You're always so responsive for me."

His fingers part your folds, circling your clit with a maddeningly light pressure. "Oscar, please," you whimper, your hands fisting in the sheets.

"Please what?" he asks, his tone a mix of amusement and authority. "Use your words. Tell me what you want."

"You," you gasp. "I want you."

"You have me," he promises, and then he sinks one finger inside you.

The relief is so intense it's almost painful. He's not gentle, not anymore. He curls his finger, finding that spot inside you that makes you see stars, and a choked sob escapes your lips. "There it is," he murmurs, his voice triumphant. "Right there. Does he do this for you? Does he know how to make you fall apart like this?"

He adds a second finger, stretching you, filling you, and the pace he sets is relentless. His thumb finds your clit, rubbing tight, merciless circles that push you closer and closer to the edge. "That's it," he encourages, his voice a low growl. "Take it. Take what I'm giving you. You're so fucking tight, so perfect. I can feel you squeezing my fingers. You're close, aren't you? Come on, baby. Come for me. I want to feel it."

His words are the final push. The coil in your stomach snaps, and your orgasm crashes over you, a blinding, overwhelming wave of pleasure. You cry out his name, your body arching off the bed as you clench around his fingers, wave after wave of ecstasy wracking your body.

He doesn't stop, working you through it, prolonging your pleasure until you're a trembling, breathless mess. Only then does he slow, his movements becoming gentle, soothing. He leans down, pressing soft kisses to your forehead, your cheeks, the corner of your mouth.

"So beautiful when you come for me." He whispers, his voice soft, full of a terrifying tenderness

He withdraws his fingers, and you whimper at the loss. He brings them to his lips, cleaning them with his tongue, his eyes never leaving yours. Then he makes quick work of his clothes, leaving himself bare before you, already hard and leaking.

The aftershocks of your orgasm are still rippling through you when he shifts, settling his weight between your thighs. The blunt head of his cock nudges against your oversensitive entrance, and you gasp, your hands flying to his shoulders to hold on. He’s not pushing in, not yet. He’s just there, a heavy, potent promise of what’s to come.

"Shhh," he soothes, though his eyes are anything but comforting. They're dark, feral, locked on your face with an unnerving intensity. "Just breathe. Feel me here."

He rolls his hips, a slow, deliberate grind that drags his length through your slick folds, teasing your clit without giving you the friction you desperately need. Your body arches instinctively, a silent plea.

"Oscar," you breathe, his name a ragged, desperate sound.

A slow, wicked smile spreads across his face. "There she is," he murmurs, his voice a low, triumphant purr. "Say it again."

"Oscar, please..."

"Please what?" he taunts, grinding against you again, a little harder this time. "Please stop? Or please don't ever stop?" He leans down, his lips brushing against your ear. "Be a good girl and tell me what you want. Tell me who you want."

"You," you gasp, the word torn from your throat. "It's you, I only want you."

He rewards you by sinking the first inch inside. The stretch is exquisite, a burning pleasure that has you moaning his name again, louder this time. "That's it," he groans, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. "Let him hear you. Let the whole fucking hotel hear who you belong to."

He pulls back, almost all the way out, leaving you empty and aching. You cry out in protest, your nails digging into his back. "Oscar!"

"Again," he demands, his voice a harsh command. "Say my name like you mean it. Like it's the only name you know."

"Oscar! Oscar, please, just fuck me," you sob, writhing beneath him, completely undone.

He slams into you then, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal, possessive thrust. The force of it steals your breath, a sharp cry of pained pleasure tearing from your lips. He stills for a moment, buried deep, his forehead pressed against yours, his breathing ragged.

"You feel that?" he growls, his voice vibrating through your chest. "You feel how deep I am? This is where I belong. Right here. Filling you up until you can't think about anyone else."

He starts to move, a punishing, rhythmic pace that's designed to shatter you. Each thrust is hard, deep, deliberate, a branding. "Is he thinking about you right now? Does he have any idea where you are? Does he have any idea you're in my bed, taking my cock so perfectly?"

The thought of Lando, innocent and sleeping, sends a fresh wave of guilt crashing over you, but it's instantly incinerated by the pleasure Oscar is wringing from your body. You can't form words, only incoherent moans and cries of his name.

"Oscar... Oscar..."

"Fuck, I love hearing you say my name," he grunts, his rhythm faltering for a second. "Say it again. Scream it for me."

He shifts his angle, hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision blur. "Oh God, O-oscar…"

"Not God, Oscar." he pants, his hand snaking down to grip your jaw, turning your face to his. " Look at me. Look at me while I fuck you."

Your eyes flutter open, locking with his. The raw, possessive hunger you see there is terrifying and intoxicating all at once. "You're mine," he snarls, his thrusts becoming erratic, more desperate. "This pretty mouth is mine. This tight little pussy is mine. These moans are mine."

His words are your undoing. The coil in your stomach snaps, and you shatter, your orgasm tearing through you with the force of a tidal wave.

He fucks you through it, chasing his own release, and with a final, guttural roar of your name, he buries himself deep and spills inside you, a hot, possessive flood that marks you as his.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room is your combined, ragged breathing. He collapses on top of you, his weight a comforting, grounding pressure. He presses a soft, almost gentle kiss to your temple.

The frantic energy that had fueled the room dissipates, leaving behind a profound, heavy silence. Oscar doesn't roll away. He stays slumped over you, his face buried in the crook of your neck, his body a dead weight that’s suddenly crushing. For a long moment, the only sound is his ragged, uneven breathing, not from exertion, but from something else entirely.

Finally, he pushes himself up, moving to the side with a slowness that speaks of utter defeat. He doesn't pull you into an embrace. He just lies there on his back, staring up at the ceiling, one arm thrown over his eyes. The distance between you on the vast bed feels like a chasm.

You watch the steady, painful rise and fall of his chest. Your own heart aches, a dull, persistent throb of guilt and loss. This is it. The end you came here to claim, and now that it’s here, it feels like you’re the one who’s been defeated.

You shift, moving to get up, to end this suffocating quiet, but his voice stops you.

"Don't," he says, and it's not a command. It's a broken whisper. "Don't go yet. Just… give me a minute."

Your breath hitches. You lie back down, stiffly, on your side of the bed, staring at his profile. The strong line of his jaw is slack, his lips parted slightly. He looks wrecked. Utterly, beautifully wrecked.

He lowers his arm from his eyes, and you see them then. They're not dark with possession or hunger anymore. They're glassy, shimmering with an unshed grief that makes your chest ache. He looks at you, and it's like he's seeing a ghost.

"I knew this was coming," he says, his voice rough, each word sounding like it's being dragged out of him. "I told myself I was ready for it. That it was just… fun. That it didn't mean anything."

He lets out a hollow, self-deprecating laugh that has no humor in it. "I'm such a fucking liar."

He turns his head on the pillow to fully face you, his gaze so intense it pins you in place. "It meant everything. Every stolen moment, every fucking text, every time you looked at me across a room when he wasn't watching… it was the only thing that felt real."

A single tear escapes, tracing a path down his temple and into his hair. It's the most devastating thing you've ever seen. Oscar, who is always so controlled, so composed, completely undone.

"I don't know how to go back," he confesses, his voice cracking. "How do I go back to just being your… what? His rival? The other guy? How do I stand on a podium next to him and pretend I don't know what you sound like when you're about to come? How do I look at you and pretend you're not the best thing that's ever happened to me?"

You reach out, your hand trembling, and your fingers brush his cheek. He flinches at the touch, then leans into it, his eyes closing as if he's in pain. He turns his head and presses a desperate, open-mouthed kiss to your palm, like a prayer.

"Please don't hate me," he whispers against your skin. "I know I was… I know I pushed. I know I was an asshole. But I just… I couldn't let you go without knowing. Without you knowing."

"I don't hate you," you manage to say, your own voice thick with tears. "I could never hate you."

"I know," he says, his voice hollow. "That's the problem. If you did, this would be easier."

He finally lets go of your hand, and the loss of contact feels like a physical blow. He turns his face back to the ceiling, his jaw tight. "Okay," he says, his voice flat, empty. "You should go. Go back to him. Be happy."

It's not a suggestion. It's a dismissal. A final, agonizing act of letting you go.

You get up, your movements slow and clumsy. You dress in silence, each piece of clothing feeling like you're wrapping yourself in chains. You can feel his eyes on you, but you don't dare look back. You can't bear to see that broken look on his face again.

At the door, your hand freezes on the handle. You risk one last glance. He hasn't moved. He's still staring at the ceiling, a solitary, heartbroken figure in the dim light.

"Oscar," you whisper, his name a final, fragile offering.

He doesn't look at you. He just closes his eyes.

"Goodbye," he says, his voice so quiet you almost miss it. "I hope he knows how lucky he is."

And then you walk out, closing the door on the sound of your own heart shattering, and on one truth you don’t know yet:

Your lie won’t save anything.

All your effort to protect Lando from the mess you created, all the guilt you swallowed down in Oscar’s room… None of it will matter.

Because the next morning, before you’re even awake, the world will already know.

A blurry set of paparazzi photos: you and Oscar in his car, a stolen kiss from earlier in the week will explode across headlines, gossip sites, and social media.

“Piastri Caught Kissing Norris's Girlfriend During Race Weekend.” “Not So Innocent? Piastri Seen With Norris’s Girlfriend.” “McLaren Love Triangle? Norris’s Partner Seen Getting Intimate With Piastri After Qualifying"

Masterlist • professor Caleb edition

Warning/tag; Infidelity/cheating, OOC Caleb, pussy eating, hate-fucking, significant age gap (19/25), power imbalance, emotional manipulation, bruises marking, no happy ending, degradation & praise kink, dubious consent elements, angst & moral ambiguity

A/N: I don't condone infidelity this is purely fiction and treat it as one, this is just for fun don't read if one or more warning listed makes you triggered. Take care of yourself, love y'all (⁠´⁠∩⁠｡⁠•⁠ ⁠ᵕ⁠ ⁠•⁠｡⁠∩⁠`⁠)

Masterlist

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Reader ; (hinted) Frank Castle x Reader ; Elektra Natchios x Matt Murdock

Summary: Matt cheated on you, and you are trying to navigate through it.

Warnings: Angst, no happy ending, break-up, mention of cheating, song references (Taylor Swift), inspired by 'Is It Over Now?', (some) Matt "slander", (somewhat) suicidal thoughts, alcohol consumptions, hint at smut

Word Count: 1.7k

A/n: 1989 TV came out and I am losing my shit. Is It Over Now? Is my new favorite song and I just had a brain fart that made this. You can read this if you're a Swiftie and catch the references or just read it without listening to the song. It works either way.

It wasn’t supposed to end like this.

Let’s get this bread

For if I am not yours, what am I?

She always knew it, she always read his letters to her, such heartfelt words he never even thought of telling his wife, she would read his letters to his lover and cry tears of such melancholy, tears she pretended to be ones of happiness. She liked to pretend those long letters were for her, and not the woman who he actually managed to love.

She would watch his smile strain a bit every time she would look at him with that heartfelt expression, she wanted nothing more but to be the receiver of those eyes he gave to his paper and ink, she wanted those songs he streamed in his radio show to be for her, but in the end she always knew his eyes didn’t belong to her.

“How was your day at work?” She asked lightly, words only loud enough for him to hear, “it was lovely Blanche, truly lovely!” His signature smile glowing as he looked at the letters in his hands, only dimming once he looked at her, as she saw the sun rays from the windows she saw his skin glowing, his beautiful honey eyes glowing like she had never seen before, she felt selfish, she felt unworthy, she saw the sun setting on his neck, and the only thing she could think about is how she couldn’t be those rays of light, so gently caressing his skin and making his eyes glow, even if it was a small synthetic gleam, she would be happy. “Alastor why do you always look at your paper and ink that way…?” She asked looking anywhere but his face, he stopped to think, slightly taken aback by her question, “in what way, dear?” He asked looking at her with a raised brow, “you look at it as if you loved it more than you love me” the words slipped from her mouth, she didn’t even stop to think about them, Alastor laughed a bit at that statement, “don’t be silly, you know I don’t like silly women! Haha!” Not wanting to continue the conversation he stood up with the intention of walking off to their bedroom, “I know” Blanche said in a more serious and loud tone, “you sure do!” He added unseriously, “No. I know Alastor, I know…” she turned to him with a frown on her face, “I know you do…!” He added again with a smile on his face and raised eyebrows, “Alastor what am I doing wrong?”, he was taken aback by the question the woman had made, almost afraid of what it could mean, he chuckled and turned around to look at her, “whatever could you mean dear?” He asked curiously, “when did I stop being enough… was I even ever?” She responded, with her head held low, looking at her ring shining just a bit with the rays of sunshine coming from the window, “now… where is this coming from…?” He asked, smile never dropping, “you might think of me as a stupid woman, a “silly woman”, you give me much too little credit” she said almost sobbing out every word she said, “now now, I don’t think you’re stupid! I think you’re remarkable dear!” He said as he stepped closer to her only close until she could no longer avoid seeing him, but far enough for the couple to not touch each other, she tried to reach out for him but Alastor quietly flinched away, “is she better than me? Does the way she look appeal more to you? Is it the way I touch you? Is it the way I speak, is it the way I feel? Alastor, please, tell me what I’m doing wrong so that I can correct myself for you, for if I am not yours… what am I?” Alastor took three steps back, smile stuttering and eyes locked on her, “yourself”, “you don’t understand, you are everything to me, you don’t know how many days I spent praying to the heavens so they’d let me be the sunlight that kisses your skin as gently as the summer breeze ruffles your hair, how many nights I spent praying to be the night breeze that caresses your skin and makes you shiver, everyday, all day, I spend it praying to be the one you truly love, I spend it praying so that at least the heavens will hear about how I feel about you, I love you so much it’s eating me inside out” she confessed, she spilled her guts out to him, and he only looked at her, with that stupid smile of his, a smile that was never for her, this was a smile he gave the world, only one woman knew of his special smile, the smile he would give to those he truly loved, a woman who wasn’t Blanche, “I never told you, I never told you I knew, I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to leave me at once, even if you didn’t love me, at least I wanted to feel a bit of your touch, at least I would get to take glances at the eyes you bare for your one true love, I would get to read the letters you wrote for another woman and pretend those words were for me”

Who else hates lesbians