✴︎

don't lose me It matters where you are Wattpad: Cruelfools

[cruefools]

﹒⸝⸝ ⧣₊˚ MY MASTERLIST

₊⟡˖ ࣪ ݁ she/her 19 ━━━ ✴︎ libra, Saudi girl loud and proud, Hufflepuff Arthur Shelby defender! Obsessed with Baelor Targaryen

angst • romance • character studies

( requests; open for Peaky Blinders + Succession + inglorious basterds + Game Of Thrones + singers & actors) no nsfw asks!

Master-list pinterest spotify Wattpad

new in ✶!

For you there is only love. The language of Lillie’s

© Cruelfools, 2026 please do not copy, repost, or translate my works.

[cruefools]

Posted some new chapters on my wattpad account to Seasons In The Sun, go read them now!

And btw please read swan song, guys after having the biggest writers block and still do I can’t seem to know what to write for the next chapter I don’t know how to get back into the pace of the story like before when I was first inspired, I’d honestly love if you guys read it and commented down you’re thoughts of what you think I should do, because I also feel the last few chapters don’t make any sense.

[cruefools]

do you write for male or gn readers? i was thinking of this one fic idea for a hans landa x male reader where the reader has been in a "social standoff" of sorts with hans landa before on an undercover mission (survived), but then ended up meeting him again at Shosanna's theatre when put on Operation Kino. i imagine it'd be again a battle of the wits, and possibly some one-sided interest eventually turned two-sided in their interactions there. i like christoph walz a lot okay ok

Hello! No I don’t write same gender fan fics, I don’t think I’ve said it before but I’m Muslim so I don’t support the LGBTQ community, obviously none of my business what a person wants to explore but I don’t support it, but if you’d like I’d be happy to write any other imagine you have in mind!🤍

[cruefools]

The fuck is up with this bitch, wtf if y’all are so pressed that I didn’t label MY WORK then don’t read it, easy shit but don’t go on my page and go cussing out everyone

[kwistowee]

😢 A KNIGHT OF THE SEVEN KINGDOMS | 1.01 vs 1.06

[cruefools]

I just wanted to thank everyone sm for all the love and beautiful comments I got for my writing I was honestly in shock it would get this much recognition and I’m so happy my writing was actually enjoyable to read😭!! Thank you everyone and please comment I love to hear your thoughts on my future ones!! Love you!🤍🤍

[cruefools]

did you per chance delete your bad bunny ffcs? 🥹 I can’t find them anymore

No of course not!! They are all there in the masterlist, I have it pinned it’s my first post

[beljude]

[cruefools]

﹒⸝⸝ ⧣₊˚ THE LANGUAGE OF LILIES

A rigid Ravenclaw linguist and a chaotic Gryffindor Chaser are forced into a year-long Herbology partnership. Between translates and transcriptions, they must figure out if they’re growing a lethal plant or something far more dangerous: a mutual attraction.

Paring. Benito Antonio Martinez Ocasio x reader

The thought or imagine of a Harry Potter fic with Benito has plagued my mind, listening to kinky love for some reason made me think of him while I was at work, and yes the reason why I haven’t been writing is because working, I’m in my first year of college but I was actually so bored because everything is online so I decided to get a job, it was both of the best and worst decisions but I’m honestly much more matured after a year and I know how to handle people and be more responsible because of it, I could leave at any moment but I know damn well I’d cry of boredom, anyways I honestly love this idea and the imagine so enjoy!!!!! I’m going to write probably a four series chapter for this, keyword: probably

The Scottish highlands were draped in a heavy, charcoal mist that morning, the kind that smelled of wet slate and ancient cedar. Hogwarts always felt most like itself when it was damp; the castle seemed to huddle together for warmth, its stone corridors humming with the collective anxieties of students returning for their sixth year.

For you, the transition had been seamless. While others spent their summers mourning the loss of freedom, you had spent yours buried in a stack of linguistics texts, alternating between the rhythmic roll of Spanish vowels and the guttural precision of German. Coming back to the Ravenclaw common room felt like sliding into a well-worn leather armchair—it was quiet, it was logical, and it was home.

You had carved out a life here that was perfectly balanced, anchored by a trio that made absolutely no sense on paper. There was Jasmine, a Slytherin whose hair was a shade of red so fierce it looked like it might actually catch fire. She was brilliant in a way that felt dangerous, her mind a steel trap of ambition and wit. Then there was Mona, a Hufflepuff who looked like she’d been kissed by the sun, all tan skin and soft smiles, until she opened her mouth and delivered a barb so sharp it could draw blood.

The three of you stood near the edge of the stone bridge, the wind whipping your robes around your ankles.

"If Slughorn tries to pair me with another dunderhead, I’m poisoning the cauldron. Accidental, of course," Jasmine drawled, leaning against the railing with an air of practiced boredom.

Mona laughed, a bright sound that defied the gloom. "Oh, hush. You love the drama. Just don't get blood on my cardigan." She turned to you, her expression softening as she reached out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. "And you, little bird. Don't let the Ravenclaw tower swallow you whole today. Try to breathe between the pages."

They both leaned in, Jasmine planting a quick, loud kiss on your left cheek and Mona doing the same on the right.

"Ugh, get off," you muttered, a small, involuntary smile tugging at your lips as you wiped your cheeks. "You're both suffocating. Go to your dungeons and your basements."

"See you at dinner, nerd!" Jasmine yelled over her shoulder as they retreated toward the castle.

You watched them go for a moment, the warmth of the interaction lingering even as the cold rain began to pick up. Squaring your shoulders, you turned and began the trek down toward the Herbology greenhouses. The grass was slick and vibrant, a neon green against the grey sky, and by the time you reached Greenhouse Three, the humidity had already begun to frizz your hair.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of damp earth and dragon dung fertilizer. You quickly slid onto a bench between Simon and Robin, two fellow Ravenclaws who were currently engaged in a heated debate about the ethical implications of Sentient Shrubs.

"Finally," Simon whispered, nudging your shoulder. "Robin thinks the shrubs have a right to vote. I think they just want to eat our fingers."

"I just think we should respect their personal space," Robin countered, leaning his elbows on the old, scarred wooden table. Behind him, a row of Chittering Lilies made rhythmic clicking noises, like a room full of tiny typewriters.

Professor Sprout clapped her soil-stained hands together, her face beaming under her patched hat. "Welcome back, sixth years! This is a momentous term. As this is the final year many of you will spend in my greenhouses before your N.E.W.T. specializations, we are ending with a legacy project."

A collective groan rippled through the room.

"Now, now!" Sprout chuckled. "It’s quite simple. A year-long partnership. One plant, grown from seed to maturity. But," she held up a finger, "you will not be working with your housemates. Innovation requires different perspectives! I have pre-assigned your partners."

The room descended into chaos. Hands shot up; voices rose in desperate pleas.

"Hopefully I get Daisy," Robin muttered, eyes darting toward a Hufflepuff across the room. "She actually does work, unlike the rest of the Gryffindors who are too busy jumping off moving staircases for fun."

"If I get a boy, I’m going to kill myself," you whispered, crossing your arms tightly. "I don't have the patience to teach a boy how to not drown a Mandrake. I just hope I have the energy to even keep up with any of them. The energy Gryffindors have will forever leave me baffled."

Simon nodded solemnly. "It’s the excessive consumption of pumpkin juice. It rots the 'logic' center of the brain."

"You and Benito! Step right up, darlings!" Sprout’s voice rang out like a bell.

The air left your lungs. Simon and Robin both froze, their eyes widening as they slowly turned to look at you, then toward the front of the room.

"What?" you breathed, the word barely a puff of air.

"Benito and you? Where are you, dear?" Sprout scanned the crowd.

Then you saw him. He was leaning against a potting shed, the very definition of 'carelessly cool.' His Gryffindor tie was pulled so loose it was practically a necklace, and his white shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing tanned forearms. He had a smirk that looked like it had been permanently etched onto his face, and his hair was a controlled mess of curls.

You stood up, your legs feeling like lead. "Professor, please. There’s been a mistake. I’m—"

"Y/n, I don’t want to hear a word," Sprout said firmly, though her eyes remained kind. "Everyone has their partner and didn't complain."

Your face scrunched up in a look of pure, unadulterated indignity. You turned and pointed both hands toward the back of the room, where Claudia, a fiery Gryffindor, was currently in a physical tug-of-war with Edgar, a spindly Ravenclaw. They were yanking on a brochure so hard it was tearing, their faces inches apart as they snarled at each other.

"They're literally brawling, Professor!" you hissed.

Sprout looked at them, then back to you with a sigh. "Well, dear, the whole point of picking a partner from a different house was exactly for this reason. Now go on and get to know each other." She bustled off to break up the fight, which had escalated to Claudia grabbing a handful of Edgar’s thick black hair while his glasses hung crookedly off one ear.

You turned slowly to face Benito. He was already standing there, his hands deep in his trouser pockets, watching you with an expression that was half-amused and half-annoyed.

"So you don't want to be my partner?" he asked. His voice was lower than you expected, with a thick, melodic lilt.

You rolled your eyes, grabbing your bag. "You know that's not it. I’d just like to be with my friends, that’s all. And I know you’d want the same. You probably had a whole plan to spend the year throwing Dirigible Plums at people's heads."

He shrugged, his shoulders moving with a languid sort of grace. "I mean, I did want to get to know someone outside of my house. But you obviously don't want to," he said.

The accent hit you fully then—Puerto Rico. It was unmistakable. The way he shortened the ends of his words, the rhythmic cadence of his speech. It was the exact dialect you had been obsessing over all summer.

"Buddy, it’s up to you if you want to understand," you said, your voice dripping with Ravenclaw pragmatism as you began stuffing the project rubrics into your bag. "I just prefer to be with my friends rather than someone who won't take the project seriously."

Benito’s eyes widened. He let out a sharp, dry scoff. "Que tipa tan difícil," he muttered under his breath, turning his head away.

You froze. Your head snapped up, your eyes narrowing into slits. "What the hell did you just say?"

He smirked, clearly not expecting you to catch the drift of his tone, even if he thought you didn't know the words. He repeated it, slower this time, his eyes challenging you.

You didn't blink. "No soy difícil, Benito. Solo soy eficiente. Y si piensas que vas a flojear en este proyecto, estás muy equivocado," you snapped back in perfect, sharp Spanish.

The smirk vanished. His jaw actually dropped, and for the first time, the cocky Gryffindor looked completely derailed. "Wait... how the hell do you know Spanish?"

"I read books. You should try it sometime," you said, turning on your heel and heading for the greenhouse exit. He scrambled to follow you, his long strides easily keeping pace as you stepped out into the damp air. Behind you, the sounds of the greenhouse—Sprout’s shouting and the class’s cheering over the Edgar-Claudia wrestling match—faded into the mist.

As you neared the castle steps, you stopped abruptly and shoved a massive stack of library books and parchment into his chest. He stumbled back, catching them against his ribs.

"Catch up on all of this," you commanded. "We start in three days."

"Three days?" He let out a disbelieving laugh, his accent thickening in his surprise. "Chica, we have the whole year to do this project. Relax."

"Exactly. Which is why we'll finish the bulk of the research this term so the plant actually survives the winter. Logic, Benny. Try to find some."

"You’re loca," he muttered, shaking his head. "I can't do three days. I have things to do."

You crossed your arms, leaning back on one foot, looking him up and down. "And why exactly is that? What could a Gryffindor possibly have that is more important than a passing grade?"

Benito leaned in slightly, a playful, dangerous spark returning to his eyes. "Slow down, preciosa. You're not my girlfriend."

Your face went hot, a flush creeping up your neck that had nothing to do with the humidity. "I—I never said—"

"Unless you want to be," he added with a wink. He was buried behind the books, only his eyes and the top of his head visible, so you comically slammed one more heavy tome on top of the pile for good measure.

"Three days," you repeated firmly.

"I have Quidditch practice!" he groaned from behind the paper wall.

You sighed, rolling your eyes toward the grey sky. "Fine. When then?"

"Hmm. How about next week?"

Your eyes hardened. "Next week? Absolutely not. Fine—Monday. But I swear if you don't catch up on the reading—wait, what’s your name again?”

"Benny."

"Seriously?"

"Benito. But you can call me Benny if you want," he said, his voice dropping into that smooth, flirtatious register that probably worked on everyone else in this school.

"I'm good, thanks," you said, reaching into your bag and pulling out a small planner. "Send me your Quidditch schedule so I can align it with mine so we can study."

Benito’s eyebrows shot up. "Wait, you play Quidditch? I’ve never seen you on the pitch! Are you a Seeker? You look like a Seeker."

You furrowed your brows, genuinely confused. "What? No. I have my Book Club and my Ancient Runes circle."

His face flattened instantly. The excitement vanished. "Oh. Right. Books. Of course." He shifted the weight of the library you’d just handed him. "Fine. I'll get another sheet and give it to you tomorrow, is that okay?"

"Yes, I guess that will do," you said, your voice softening just a fraction at the way he looked—struggling with the books but still trying to look cool. "Even though I’d appreciate it if you could try to hand it to me tonight."

"When would I get time?" he asked, sounding genuinely harassed.

"Midnight feast," you said matter-of-factly. "The Great Hall is always open. You have no excuse."

"I'll try," he muttered, adjusting his grip on the stack. "No promises."

"Goodbye, Benito."

"Bye, princesseca," he called out, a smirk audible in his voice even as you turned away.

You felt the heat rush to your cheeks again, a deep, traitorous blush. You gripped the straps of your bag and walked faster, the sound of his laughter echoing faintly against the stone walls of Hogwarts.

The rest of the day was a blur of parchment and ink, but your mind was elsewhere—specifically, stuck on a certain Gryffindor whose Spanish was as smooth as his ego was large.

By the time 11:30 PM rolled around, the Ravenclaw common room was a graveyard of abandoned quill caps and snoring fifth-years. You, however, were wide awake. You checked your reflection in a darkened window, smoothing out your sweater. It wasn't for him, you told yourself. It was for the sake of the project. You couldn't have a disorganized partner; it would disrupt your entire ecosystem.

Slipping out of the tower, you navigated the moving staircases with the practiced ease of a local. The castle at night was different—the shadows were longer, the portraits were grumpier, and the air smelled of snuffed candles and old stone.

When you reached the Great Hall, the massive oak doors were slightly ajar. A single long table was lit by a cluster of floating candles, casting a warm, golden glow over the empty space. And there he was.

Benito was sprawled out across the bench, one leg hooked over the table and a piece of toast hanging precariously from his mouth. He wasn't wearing his robes anymore; he was in a oversized black sweater, his curls even more chaotic than they had been in the greenhouse.

"You're late," you whispered, your voice echoing off the high rafters.

He didn't jump. Instead, he slowly turned his head, a slow smirk spreading across his face as he swallowed the toast. "And you're exactly on time. Very Ravenclaw of you, reina."

"It’s called being punctual," you countered, sliding onto the bench opposite him. You pointedly ignored the way the candlelight caught the gold in his eyes. "Do you have it?"

"Directa al grano," he chuckled, shaking his head. "Always business with you. Don't you ever just... breathe? Look at the stars? Eat a pastry?"

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of parchment, smoothing it out on the table with a theatrical flourish. Beside it, he placed a small, napkin-wrapped bundle. "My Quidditch schedule. And," he unwrapped the napkin to reveal two warm, chocolate-filled croissants, "bribes. From the kitchens. The house-elves love me."

"I don't need bribes, Benito. I need you to understand the difference between a Venomous Tentacula and a Flitterbloom."

"I know the difference," he said, his voice dropping into that low, husky tone again. He leaned across the table, his face inches from yours. "One tries to eat you, and the other just wants to dance. I’m more of a dancer myself."

You felt that familiar heat rising to your cheeks. To hide it, you snatched up the schedule and peered at it. "You have practice four times a week? At five in the morning?"

"Champions don't sleep," he said, though he looked like he could nap for a decade right there on the table. "But I have a gap on Tuesday afternoons. And Sunday nights."

"Sunday nights are for the library," you said firmly.

"Sunday nights are for fun, y/n. But fine. If it means I get to hear you speak Spanish again, I’ll suffer through the library." He picked up a croissant and held it out to you. "Eat. You look like you’re about to start calculating the gravitational pull of the moon. Relax for five minutes."

You looked at the croissant, then at him. His eyes were softer now, less "cocky Gryffindor" and more "boy who stayed up late just to meet you."

"Fine," you muttered, taking the pastry. It was still warm, the chocolate melting onto your fingers. "But we start the research on Tuesday. No excuses. If you show up late, I’m changing the partnership to a solo project and telling Sprout you’ve been transmuted into a teapot."

Benito laughed, a deep, rich sound that made the candles flicker. "You're mean. I like it."

He watched you take a bite of the croissant, a satisfied look on his face. For a moment, the silence of the Great Hall wasn't heavy—it was comfortable. The smell of chocolate and old wood felt like a secret the two of you were sharing.

"So," he said, breaking the silence. "Spanish and German? Why?"

"Knowledge is the only thing they can't take away from you," you said simply, dabbing a bit of chocolate from your lip.

Benito’s gaze lingered on your mouth for a second too long before he looked back up at your eyes. "True. But sometimes, you have to stop reading about the world and actually live in it. I could teach you things that aren't in those books, princesseca."

"Like how to fall off a broom?" you quipped.

"Like how to win," he whispered, a playful glint in his eyes.

You stood up, clutching the schedule to your chest like a shield. "We'll see about that. Tuesday. Don't forget your notes."

"I won't," he promised, leaning back and watching you walk toward the doors. "And y/n?"

You paused, looking back over your shoulder.

"You have chocolate on your cheek," he said, pointing to his own face with a wink.

You frantically wiped your face, feeling your heart hammer against your ribs as you hurried out of the hall. Behind you, you could hear him humming a reggaeton beat under his breath, the sound fading as you climbed the stairs toward the safety of the Ravenclaw tower.

The project hadn't even started, and you already knew this was going to be the longest year of your life.

By the time you reached the eagle knocker of the Ravenclaw tower, you weren't just blushing—you were fuming. The cool, nocturnal air of the corridors usually settled your thoughts, but tonight it only seemed to fan the flames of your irritation.

"Princesseca," you hissed to yourself, the word feeling like a spark on your tongue. "The nerve. The absolute, unmitigated Gryffindor gall."

The bronze eagle stared at you with its blank, metallic eyes. "What has a heart that does not beat, and a tongue that does not speak?" it asked in its melodic, ethereal voice.

"A shoe," you snapped, perhaps a bit too aggressively. "Now let me in before I transmute this door into a pile of toothpicks."

The door swung open, and you marched into the blue-and-bronze sanctuary of the common room. It was near-empty, save for a few seventh-years buried under a mountain of Arithmancy charts. You sank into your favorite velvet armchair by the window, the Scottish stars blurring behind the glass.

You pulled out the crumpled Quidditch schedule he’d given you. The handwriting was atrocious—sharp, slanted, and chaotic, just like the person who wrote it. There were even little doodles of snitches in the margins. You stared at it until the parchment began to vibrate in your trembling grip.

"He thinks this is a game," you whispered to the empty room. "He thinks he can just show up with a smuggled croissant and a wink and I’ll just... what? Do all the work while he hums along to whatever rhythmic nonsense is bouncing around that thick skull of his?"

The sheer inefficiency of him was what truly grated. You had spent your entire academic career cultivating a reputation for precision. You were the girl who knew the botanical properties of Mimbulus mimbletonia by heart; he was the boy who probably thought "organic chemistry" was a brand of hair gel.

You aggressively wiped your cheek again, even though you were certain the chocolate was gone. You could still feel the phantom heat of his gaze, that lazy, heavy-lidded look that seemed to say he knew exactly how much he was bothering you. And he liked it. That was the worst part. He wasn't just lazy; he was a provocateur.

"I am going to bury him in the Restricted Section," you muttered, pulling a fresh piece of parchment toward you. You began to draft a "Partnership Contract," pressing the quill down so hard the nib squeaked in protest.

Clause 1: No nicknames.

Clause 2: No humming.

Clause 3: Spanish is for academic translation only.

You paused, the image of him leaning across the table—smelling like rain, old parchment and mangos with a hint of mint, and something warm like cinnamon—flashing through your mind. You shook your head violently, your hair whipping against your neck.

"He is a distraction," you told yourself firmly. "A loud, arrogant, Quidditch-obsessed distraction who clearly thinks Ravenclaws are just walking encyclopedias meant for his entertainment."

You spent the next hour color-coding a study guide so intense it would make a Gringotts goblin weep. If Benito wanted to pass this year, he was going to have to survive you first. By the time you finally climbed the spiral stairs to your dormitory, your jaw was tight and your eyes were bright with a very specific kind of competitive fire.

He wanted to play? Fine. But he had no idea that in the library, you didn't just play—you reigned supreme.

[cruefools]

﹒⸝⸝ ⧣₊˚ THE LANGUAGE OF LILIES

A rigid Ravenclaw linguist and a chaotic Gryffindor Chaser are forced into a year-long Herbology partnership. Between translates and transcriptions, they must figure out if they’re growing a lethal plant or something far more dangerous: a mutual attraction.

Paring. Benito Antonio Martinez Ocasio x reader

The thought or imagine of a Harry Potter fic with Benito has plagued my mind, listening to kinky love for some reason made me think of him while I was at work, and yes the reason why I haven’t been writing is because working, I’m in my first year of college but I was actually so bored because everything is online so I decided to get a job, it was both of the best and worst decisions but I’m honestly much more matured after a year and I know how to handle people and be more responsible because of it, I could leave at any moment but I know damn well I’d cry of boredom, anyways I honestly love this idea and the imagine so enjoy!!!!! I’m going to write probably a four series chapter for this, keyword: probably

The Scottish highlands were draped in a heavy, charcoal mist that morning, the kind that smelled of wet slate and ancient cedar. Hogwarts always felt most like itself when it was damp; the castle seemed to huddle together for warmth, its stone corridors humming with the collective anxieties of students returning for their sixth year.

For you, the transition had been seamless. While others spent their summers mourning the loss of freedom, you had spent yours buried in a stack of linguistics texts, alternating between the rhythmic roll of Spanish vowels and the guttural precision of German. Coming back to the Ravenclaw common room felt like sliding into a well-worn leather armchair—it was quiet, it was logical, and it was home.

You had carved out a life here that was perfectly balanced, anchored by a trio that made absolutely no sense on paper. There was Jasmine, a Slytherin whose hair was a shade of red so fierce it looked like it might actually catch fire. She was brilliant in a way that felt dangerous, her mind a steel trap of ambition and wit. Then there was Mona, a Hufflepuff who looked like she’d been kissed by the sun, all tan skin and soft smiles, until she opened her mouth and delivered a barb so sharp it could draw blood.

The three of you stood near the edge of the stone bridge, the wind whipping your robes around your ankles.

"If Slughorn tries to pair me with another dunderhead, I’m poisoning the cauldron. Accidental, of course," Jasmine drawled, leaning against the railing with an air of practiced boredom.

Mona laughed, a bright sound that defied the gloom. "Oh, hush. You love the drama. Just don't get blood on my cardigan." She turned to you, her expression softening as she reached out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. "And you, little bird. Don't let the Ravenclaw tower swallow you whole today. Try to breathe between the pages."

They both leaned in, Jasmine planting a quick, loud kiss on your left cheek and Mona doing the same on the right.

"Ugh, get off," you muttered, a small, involuntary smile tugging at your lips as you wiped your cheeks. "You're both suffocating. Go to your dungeons and your basements."

"See you at dinner, nerd!" Jasmine yelled over her shoulder as they retreated toward the castle.

You watched them go for a moment, the warmth of the interaction lingering even as the cold rain began to pick up. Squaring your shoulders, you turned and began the trek down toward the Herbology greenhouses. The grass was slick and vibrant, a neon green against the grey sky, and by the time you reached Greenhouse Three, the humidity had already begun to frizz your hair.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of damp earth and dragon dung fertilizer. You quickly slid onto a bench between Simon and Robin, two fellow Ravenclaws who were currently engaged in a heated debate about the ethical implications of Sentient Shrubs.

"Finally," Simon whispered, nudging your shoulder. "Robin thinks the shrubs have a right to vote. I think they just want to eat our fingers."

"I just think we should respect their personal space," Robin countered, leaning his elbows on the old, scarred wooden table. Behind him, a row of Chittering Lilies made rhythmic clicking noises, like a room full of tiny typewriters.

Professor Sprout clapped her soil-stained hands together, her face beaming under her patched hat. "Welcome back, sixth years! This is a momentous term. As this is the final year many of you will spend in my greenhouses before your N.E.W.T. specializations, we are ending with a legacy project."

A collective groan rippled through the room.

"Now, now!" Sprout chuckled. "It’s quite simple. A year-long partnership. One plant, grown from seed to maturity. But," she held up a finger, "you will not be working with your housemates. Innovation requires different perspectives! I have pre-assigned your partners."

The room descended into chaos. Hands shot up; voices rose in desperate pleas.

"Hopefully I get Daisy," Robin muttered, eyes darting toward a Hufflepuff across the room. "She actually does work, unlike the rest of the Gryffindors who are too busy jumping off moving staircases for fun."

"If I get a boy, I’m going to kill myself," you whispered, crossing your arms tightly. "I don't have the patience to teach a boy how to not drown a Mandrake. I just hope I have the energy to even keep up with any of them. The energy Gryffindors have will forever leave me baffled."

Simon nodded solemnly. "It’s the excessive consumption of pumpkin juice. It rots the 'logic' center of the brain."

"You and Benito! Step right up, darlings!" Sprout’s voice rang out like a bell.

The air left your lungs. Simon and Robin both froze, their eyes widening as they slowly turned to look at you, then toward the front of the room.

"What?" you breathed, the word barely a puff of air.

"Benito and you? Where are you, dear?" Sprout scanned the crowd.

Then you saw him. He was leaning against a potting shed, the very definition of 'carelessly cool.' His Gryffindor tie was pulled so loose it was practically a necklace, and his white shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing tanned forearms. He had a smirk that looked like it had been permanently etched onto his face, and his hair was a controlled mess of curls.

You stood up, your legs feeling like lead. "Professor, please. There’s been a mistake. I’m—"

"Y/n, I don’t want to hear a word," Sprout said firmly, though her eyes remained kind. "Everyone has their partner and didn't complain."

Your face scrunched up in a look of pure, unadulterated indignity. You turned and pointed both hands toward the back of the room, where Claudia, a fiery Gryffindor, was currently in a physical tug-of-war with Edgar, a spindly Ravenclaw. They were yanking on a brochure so hard it was tearing, their faces inches apart as they snarled at each other.

"They're literally brawling, Professor!" you hissed.

Sprout looked at them, then back to you with a sigh. "Well, dear, the whole point of picking a partner from a different house was exactly for this reason. Now go on and get to know each other." She bustled off to break up the fight, which had escalated to Claudia grabbing a handful of Edgar’s thick black hair while his glasses hung crookedly off one ear.

You turned slowly to face Benito. He was already standing there, his hands deep in his trouser pockets, watching you with an expression that was half-amused and half-annoyed.

"So you don't want to be my partner?" he asked. His voice was lower than you expected, with a thick, melodic lilt.

You rolled your eyes, grabbing your bag. "You know that's not it. I’d just like to be with my friends, that’s all. And I know you’d want the same. You probably had a whole plan to spend the year throwing Dirigible Plums at people's heads."

He shrugged, his shoulders moving with a languid sort of grace. "I mean, I did want to get to know someone outside of my house. But you obviously don't want to," he said.

The accent hit you fully then—Puerto Rico. It was unmistakable. The way he shortened the ends of his words, the rhythmic cadence of his speech. It was the exact dialect you had been obsessing over all summer.

"Buddy, it’s up to you if you want to understand," you said, your voice dripping with Ravenclaw pragmatism as you began stuffing the project rubrics into your bag. "I just prefer to be with my friends rather than someone who won't take the project seriously."

Benito’s eyes widened. He let out a sharp, dry scoff. "Que tipa tan difícil," he muttered under his breath, turning his head away.

You froze. Your head snapped up, your eyes narrowing into slits. "What the hell did you just say?"

He smirked, clearly not expecting you to catch the drift of his tone, even if he thought you didn't know the words. He repeated it, slower this time, his eyes challenging you.

You didn't blink. "No soy difícil, Benito. Solo soy eficiente. Y si piensas que vas a flojear en este proyecto, estás muy equivocado," you snapped back in perfect, sharp Spanish.

The smirk vanished. His jaw actually dropped, and for the first time, the cocky Gryffindor looked completely derailed. "Wait... how the hell do you know Spanish?"

"I read books. You should try it sometime," you said, turning on your heel and heading for the greenhouse exit. He scrambled to follow you, his long strides easily keeping pace as you stepped out into the damp air. Behind you, the sounds of the greenhouse—Sprout’s shouting and the class’s cheering over the Edgar-Claudia wrestling match—faded into the mist.

As you neared the castle steps, you stopped abruptly and shoved a massive stack of library books and parchment into his chest. He stumbled back, catching them against his ribs.

"Catch up on all of this," you commanded. "We start in three days."

"Three days?" He let out a disbelieving laugh, his accent thickening in his surprise. "Chica, we have the whole year to do this project. Relax."

"Exactly. Which is why we'll finish the bulk of the research this term so the plant actually survives the winter. Logic, Benny. Try to find some."

"You’re loca," he muttered, shaking his head. "I can't do three days. I have things to do."

You crossed your arms, leaning back on one foot, looking him up and down. "And why exactly is that? What could a Gryffindor possibly have that is more important than a passing grade?"

Benito leaned in slightly, a playful, dangerous spark returning to his eyes. "Slow down, preciosa. You're not my girlfriend."

Your face went hot, a flush creeping up your neck that had nothing to do with the humidity. "I—I never said—"

"Unless you want to be," he added with a wink. He was buried behind the books, only his eyes and the top of his head visible, so you comically slammed one more heavy tome on top of the pile for good measure.

"Three days," you repeated firmly.

"I have Quidditch practice!" he groaned from behind the paper wall.

You sighed, rolling your eyes toward the grey sky. "Fine. When then?"

"Hmm. How about next week?"

Your eyes hardened. "Next week? Absolutely not. Fine—Monday. But I swear if you don't catch up on the reading—wait, what’s your name again?”

"Benny."

"Seriously?"

"Benito. But you can call me Benny if you want," he said, his voice dropping into that smooth, flirtatious register that probably worked on everyone else in this school.

"I'm good, thanks," you said, reaching into your bag and pulling out a small planner. "Send me your Quidditch schedule so I can align it with mine so we can study."

Benito’s eyebrows shot up. "Wait, you play Quidditch? I’ve never seen you on the pitch! Are you a Seeker? You look like a Seeker."

You furrowed your brows, genuinely confused. "What? No. I have my Book Club and my Ancient Runes circle."

His face flattened instantly. The excitement vanished. "Oh. Right. Books. Of course." He shifted the weight of the library you’d just handed him. "Fine. I'll get another sheet and give it to you tomorrow, is that okay?"

"Yes, I guess that will do," you said, your voice softening just a fraction at the way he looked—struggling with the books but still trying to look cool. "Even though I’d appreciate it if you could try to hand it to me tonight."

"When would I get time?" he asked, sounding genuinely harassed.

"Midnight feast," you said matter-of-factly. "The Great Hall is always open. You have no excuse."

"I'll try," he muttered, adjusting his grip on the stack. "No promises."

"Goodbye, Benito."

"Bye, princesseca," he called out, a smirk audible in his voice even as you turned away.

You felt the heat rush to your cheeks again, a deep, traitorous blush. You gripped the straps of your bag and walked faster, the sound of his laughter echoing faintly against the stone walls of Hogwarts.

The rest of the day was a blur of parchment and ink, but your mind was elsewhere—specifically, stuck on a certain Gryffindor whose Spanish was as smooth as his ego was large.

By the time 11:30 PM rolled around, the Ravenclaw common room was a graveyard of abandoned quill caps and snoring fifth-years. You, however, were wide awake. You checked your reflection in a darkened window, smoothing out your sweater. It wasn't for him, you told yourself. It was for the sake of the project. You couldn't have a disorganized partner; it would disrupt your entire ecosystem.

Slipping out of the tower, you navigated the moving staircases with the practiced ease of a local. The castle at night was different—the shadows were longer, the portraits were grumpier, and the air smelled of snuffed candles and old stone.

When you reached the Great Hall, the massive oak doors were slightly ajar. A single long table was lit by a cluster of floating candles, casting a warm, golden glow over the empty space. And there he was.

Benito was sprawled out across the bench, one leg hooked over the table and a piece of toast hanging precariously from his mouth. He wasn't wearing his robes anymore; he was in a oversized black sweater, his curls even more chaotic than they had been in the greenhouse.

"You're late," you whispered, your voice echoing off the high rafters.

He didn't jump. Instead, he slowly turned his head, a slow smirk spreading across his face as he swallowed the toast. "And you're exactly on time. Very Ravenclaw of you, reina."

"It’s called being punctual," you countered, sliding onto the bench opposite him. You pointedly ignored the way the candlelight caught the gold in his eyes. "Do you have it?"

"Directa al grano," he chuckled, shaking his head. "Always business with you. Don't you ever just... breathe? Look at the stars? Eat a pastry?"

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of parchment, smoothing it out on the table with a theatrical flourish. Beside it, he placed a small, napkin-wrapped bundle. "My Quidditch schedule. And," he unwrapped the napkin to reveal two warm, chocolate-filled croissants, "bribes. From the kitchens. The house-elves love me."

"I don't need bribes, Benito. I need you to understand the difference between a Venomous Tentacula and a Flitterbloom."

"I know the difference," he said, his voice dropping into that low, husky tone again. He leaned across the table, his face inches from yours. "One tries to eat you, and the other just wants to dance. I’m more of a dancer myself."

You felt that familiar heat rising to your cheeks. To hide it, you snatched up the schedule and peered at it. "You have practice four times a week? At five in the morning?"

"Champions don't sleep," he said, though he looked like he could nap for a decade right there on the table. "But I have a gap on Tuesday afternoons. And Sunday nights."

"Sunday nights are for the library," you said firmly.

"Sunday nights are for fun, y/n. But fine. If it means I get to hear you speak Spanish again, I’ll suffer through the library." He picked up a croissant and held it out to you. "Eat. You look like you’re about to start calculating the gravitational pull of the moon. Relax for five minutes."

You looked at the croissant, then at him. His eyes were softer now, less "cocky Gryffindor" and more "boy who stayed up late just to meet you."

"Fine," you muttered, taking the pastry. It was still warm, the chocolate melting onto your fingers. "But we start the research on Tuesday. No excuses. If you show up late, I’m changing the partnership to a solo project and telling Sprout you’ve been transmuted into a teapot."

Benito laughed, a deep, rich sound that made the candles flicker. "You're mean. I like it."

He watched you take a bite of the croissant, a satisfied look on his face. For a moment, the silence of the Great Hall wasn't heavy—it was comfortable. The smell of chocolate and old wood felt like a secret the two of you were sharing.

"So," he said, breaking the silence. "Spanish and German? Why?"

"Knowledge is the only thing they can't take away from you," you said simply, dabbing a bit of chocolate from your lip.

Benito’s gaze lingered on your mouth for a second too long before he looked back up at your eyes. "True. But sometimes, you have to stop reading about the world and actually live in it. I could teach you things that aren't in those books, princesseca."

"Like how to fall off a broom?" you quipped.

"Like how to win," he whispered, a playful glint in his eyes.

You stood up, clutching the schedule to your chest like a shield. "We'll see about that. Tuesday. Don't forget your notes."

"I won't," he promised, leaning back and watching you walk toward the doors. "And y/n?"

You paused, looking back over your shoulder.

"You have chocolate on your cheek," he said, pointing to his own face with a wink.

You frantically wiped your face, feeling your heart hammer against your ribs as you hurried out of the hall. Behind you, you could hear him humming a reggaeton beat under his breath, the sound fading as you climbed the stairs toward the safety of the Ravenclaw tower.

The project hadn't even started, and you already knew this was going to be the longest year of your life.

By the time you reached the eagle knocker of the Ravenclaw tower, you weren't just blushing—you were fuming. The cool, nocturnal air of the corridors usually settled your thoughts, but tonight it only seemed to fan the flames of your irritation.

"Princesseca," you hissed to yourself, the word feeling like a spark on your tongue. "The nerve. The absolute, unmitigated Gryffindor gall."

The bronze eagle stared at you with its blank, metallic eyes. "What has a heart that does not beat, and a tongue that does not speak?" it asked in its melodic, ethereal voice.

"A shoe," you snapped, perhaps a bit too aggressively. "Now let me in before I transmute this door into a pile of toothpicks."

The door swung open, and you marched into the blue-and-bronze sanctuary of the common room. It was near-empty, save for a few seventh-years buried under a mountain of Arithmancy charts. You sank into your favorite velvet armchair by the window, the Scottish stars blurring behind the glass.

You pulled out the crumpled Quidditch schedule he’d given you. The handwriting was atrocious—sharp, slanted, and chaotic, just like the person who wrote it. There were even little doodles of snitches in the margins. You stared at it until the parchment began to vibrate in your trembling grip.

"He thinks this is a game," you whispered to the empty room. "He thinks he can just show up with a smuggled croissant and a wink and I’ll just... what? Do all the work while he hums along to whatever rhythmic nonsense is bouncing around that thick skull of his?"

The sheer inefficiency of him was what truly grated. You had spent your entire academic career cultivating a reputation for precision. You were the girl who knew the botanical properties of Mimbulus mimbletonia by heart; he was the boy who probably thought "organic chemistry" was a brand of hair gel.

You aggressively wiped your cheek again, even though you were certain the chocolate was gone. You could still feel the phantom heat of his gaze, that lazy, heavy-lidded look that seemed to say he knew exactly how much he was bothering you. And he liked it. That was the worst part. He wasn't just lazy; he was a provocateur.

"I am going to bury him in the Restricted Section," you muttered, pulling a fresh piece of parchment toward you. You began to draft a "Partnership Contract," pressing the quill down so hard the nib squeaked in protest.

Clause 1: No nicknames.

Clause 2: No humming.

Clause 3: Spanish is for academic translation only.

You paused, the image of him leaning across the table—smelling like rain, old parchment and mangos with a hint of mint, and something warm like cinnamon—flashing through your mind. You shook your head violently, your hair whipping against your neck.

"He is a distraction," you told yourself firmly. "A loud, arrogant, Quidditch-obsessed distraction who clearly thinks Ravenclaws are just walking encyclopedias meant for his entertainment."

You spent the next hour color-coding a study guide so intense it would make a Gringotts goblin weep. If Benito wanted to pass this year, he was going to have to survive you first. By the time you finally climbed the spiral stairs to your dormitory, your jaw was tight and your eyes were bright with a very specific kind of competitive fire.

He wanted to play? Fine. But he had no idea that in the library, you didn't just play—you reigned supreme.

[cruefools]

Hope you guys enjoyyy!!!

[cruefools]

﹒⸝⸝ ⧣₊˚ THE LANGUAGE OF LILIES

A rigid Ravenclaw linguist and a chaotic Gryffindor Chaser are forced into a year-long Herbology partnership. Between translates and transcriptions, they must figure out if they’re growing a lethal plant or something far more dangerous: a mutual attraction.

Paring. Benito Antonio Martinez Ocasio x reader

The thought or imagine of a Harry Potter fic with Benito has plagued my mind, listening to kinky love for some reason made me think of him while I was at work, and yes the reason why I haven’t been writing is because working, I’m in my first year of college but I was actually so bored because everything is online so I decided to get a job, it was both of the best and worst decisions but I’m honestly much more matured after a year and I know how to handle people and be more responsible because of it, I could leave at any moment but I know damn well I’d cry of boredom, anyways I honestly love this idea and the imagine so enjoy!!!!! I’m going to write probably a four series chapter for this, keyword: probably

The Scottish highlands were draped in a heavy, charcoal mist that morning, the kind that smelled of wet slate and ancient cedar. Hogwarts always felt most like itself when it was damp; the castle seemed to huddle together for warmth, its stone corridors humming with the collective anxieties of students returning for their sixth year.

For you, the transition had been seamless. While others spent their summers mourning the loss of freedom, you had spent yours buried in a stack of linguistics texts, alternating between the rhythmic roll of Spanish vowels and the guttural precision of German. Coming back to the Ravenclaw common room felt like sliding into a well-worn leather armchair—it was quiet, it was logical, and it was home.

You had carved out a life here that was perfectly balanced, anchored by a trio that made absolutely no sense on paper. There was Jasmine, a Slytherin whose hair was a shade of red so fierce it looked like it might actually catch fire. She was brilliant in a way that felt dangerous, her mind a steel trap of ambition and wit. Then there was Mona, a Hufflepuff who looked like she’d been kissed by the sun, all tan skin and soft smiles, until she opened her mouth and delivered a barb so sharp it could draw blood.

The three of you stood near the edge of the stone bridge, the wind whipping your robes around your ankles.

"If Slughorn tries to pair me with another dunderhead, I’m poisoning the cauldron. Accidental, of course," Jasmine drawled, leaning against the railing with an air of practiced boredom.

Mona laughed, a bright sound that defied the gloom. "Oh, hush. You love the drama. Just don't get blood on my cardigan." She turned to you, her expression softening as she reached out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. "And you, little bird. Don't let the Ravenclaw tower swallow you whole today. Try to breathe between the pages."

They both leaned in, Jasmine planting a quick, loud kiss on your left cheek and Mona doing the same on the right.

"Ugh, get off," you muttered, a small, involuntary smile tugging at your lips as you wiped your cheeks. "You're both suffocating. Go to your dungeons and your basements."

"See you at dinner, nerd!" Jasmine yelled over her shoulder as they retreated toward the castle.

You watched them go for a moment, the warmth of the interaction lingering even as the cold rain began to pick up. Squaring your shoulders, you turned and began the trek down toward the Herbology greenhouses. The grass was slick and vibrant, a neon green against the grey sky, and by the time you reached Greenhouse Three, the humidity had already begun to frizz your hair.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of damp earth and dragon dung fertilizer. You quickly slid onto a bench between Simon and Robin, two fellow Ravenclaws who were currently engaged in a heated debate about the ethical implications of Sentient Shrubs.

"Finally," Simon whispered, nudging your shoulder. "Robin thinks the shrubs have a right to vote. I think they just want to eat our fingers."

"I just think we should respect their personal space," Robin countered, leaning his elbows on the old, scarred wooden table. Behind him, a row of Chittering Lilies made rhythmic clicking noises, like a room full of tiny typewriters.

Professor Sprout clapped her soil-stained hands together, her face beaming under her patched hat. "Welcome back, sixth years! This is a momentous term. As this is the final year many of you will spend in my greenhouses before your N.E.W.T. specializations, we are ending with a legacy project."

A collective groan rippled through the room.

"Now, now!" Sprout chuckled. "It’s quite simple. A year-long partnership. One plant, grown from seed to maturity. But," she held up a finger, "you will not be working with your housemates. Innovation requires different perspectives! I have pre-assigned your partners."

The room descended into chaos. Hands shot up; voices rose in desperate pleas.

"Hopefully I get Daisy," Robin muttered, eyes darting toward a Hufflepuff across the room. "She actually does work, unlike the rest of the Gryffindors who are too busy jumping off moving staircases for fun."

"If I get a boy, I’m going to kill myself," you whispered, crossing your arms tightly. "I don't have the patience to teach a boy how to not drown a Mandrake. I just hope I have the energy to even keep up with any of them. The energy Gryffindors have will forever leave me baffled."

Simon nodded solemnly. "It’s the excessive consumption of pumpkin juice. It rots the 'logic' center of the brain."

"You and Benito! Step right up, darlings!" Sprout’s voice rang out like a bell.

The air left your lungs. Simon and Robin both froze, their eyes widening as they slowly turned to look at you, then toward the front of the room.

"What?" you breathed, the word barely a puff of air.

"Benito and you? Where are you, dear?" Sprout scanned the crowd.

Then you saw him. He was leaning against a potting shed, the very definition of 'carelessly cool.' His Gryffindor tie was pulled so loose it was practically a necklace, and his white shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing tanned forearms. He had a smirk that looked like it had been permanently etched onto his face, and his hair was a controlled mess of curls.

You stood up, your legs feeling like lead. "Professor, please. There’s been a mistake. I’m—"

"Y/n, I don’t want to hear a word," Sprout said firmly, though her eyes remained kind. "Everyone has their partner and didn't complain."

Your face scrunched up in a look of pure, unadulterated indignity. You turned and pointed both hands toward the back of the room, where Claudia, a fiery Gryffindor, was currently in a physical tug-of-war with Edgar, a spindly Ravenclaw. They were yanking on a brochure so hard it was tearing, their faces inches apart as they snarled at each other.

"They're literally brawling, Professor!" you hissed.

Sprout looked at them, then back to you with a sigh. "Well, dear, the whole point of picking a partner from a different house was exactly for this reason. Now go on and get to know each other." She bustled off to break up the fight, which had escalated to Claudia grabbing a handful of Edgar’s thick black hair while his glasses hung crookedly off one ear.

You turned slowly to face Benito. He was already standing there, his hands deep in his trouser pockets, watching you with an expression that was half-amused and half-annoyed.

"So you don't want to be my partner?" he asked. His voice was lower than you expected, with a thick, melodic lilt.

You rolled your eyes, grabbing your bag. "You know that's not it. I’d just like to be with my friends, that’s all. And I know you’d want the same. You probably had a whole plan to spend the year throwing Dirigible Plums at people's heads."

He shrugged, his shoulders moving with a languid sort of grace. "I mean, I did want to get to know someone outside of my house. But you obviously don't want to," he said.

The accent hit you fully then—Puerto Rico. It was unmistakable. The way he shortened the ends of his words, the rhythmic cadence of his speech. It was the exact dialect you had been obsessing over all summer.

"Buddy, it’s up to you if you want to understand," you said, your voice dripping with Ravenclaw pragmatism as you began stuffing the project rubrics into your bag. "I just prefer to be with my friends rather than someone who won't take the project seriously."

Benito’s eyes widened. He let out a sharp, dry scoff. "Que tipa tan difícil," he muttered under his breath, turning his head away.

You froze. Your head snapped up, your eyes narrowing into slits. "What the hell did you just say?"

He smirked, clearly not expecting you to catch the drift of his tone, even if he thought you didn't know the words. He repeated it, slower this time, his eyes challenging you.

You didn't blink. "No soy difícil, Benito. Solo soy eficiente. Y si piensas que vas a flojear en este proyecto, estás muy equivocado," you snapped back in perfect, sharp Spanish.

The smirk vanished. His jaw actually dropped, and for the first time, the cocky Gryffindor looked completely derailed. "Wait... how the hell do you know Spanish?"

"I read books. You should try it sometime," you said, turning on your heel and heading for the greenhouse exit. He scrambled to follow you, his long strides easily keeping pace as you stepped out into the damp air. Behind you, the sounds of the greenhouse—Sprout’s shouting and the class’s cheering over the Edgar-Claudia wrestling match—faded into the mist.

As you neared the castle steps, you stopped abruptly and shoved a massive stack of library books and parchment into his chest. He stumbled back, catching them against his ribs.

"Catch up on all of this," you commanded. "We start in three days."

"Three days?" He let out a disbelieving laugh, his accent thickening in his surprise. "Chica, we have the whole year to do this project. Relax."

"Exactly. Which is why we'll finish the bulk of the research this term so the plant actually survives the winter. Logic, Benny. Try to find some."

"You’re loca," he muttered, shaking his head. "I can't do three days. I have things to do."

You crossed your arms, leaning back on one foot, looking him up and down. "And why exactly is that? What could a Gryffindor possibly have that is more important than a passing grade?"

Benito leaned in slightly, a playful, dangerous spark returning to his eyes. "Slow down, preciosa. You're not my girlfriend."

Your face went hot, a flush creeping up your neck that had nothing to do with the humidity. "I—I never said—"

"Unless you want to be," he added with a wink. He was buried behind the books, only his eyes and the top of his head visible, so you comically slammed one more heavy tome on top of the pile for good measure.

"Three days," you repeated firmly.

"I have Quidditch practice!" he groaned from behind the paper wall.

You sighed, rolling your eyes toward the grey sky. "Fine. When then?"

"Hmm. How about next week?"

Your eyes hardened. "Next week? Absolutely not. Fine—Monday. But I swear if you don't catch up on the reading—wait, what’s your name again?”

"Benny."

"Seriously?"

"Benito. But you can call me Benny if you want," he said, his voice dropping into that smooth, flirtatious register that probably worked on everyone else in this school.

"I'm good, thanks," you said, reaching into your bag and pulling out a small planner. "Send me your Quidditch schedule so I can align it with mine so we can study."

Benito’s eyebrows shot up. "Wait, you play Quidditch? I’ve never seen you on the pitch! Are you a Seeker? You look like a Seeker."

You furrowed your brows, genuinely confused. "What? No. I have my Book Club and my Ancient Runes circle."

His face flattened instantly. The excitement vanished. "Oh. Right. Books. Of course." He shifted the weight of the library you’d just handed him. "Fine. I'll get another sheet and give it to you tomorrow, is that okay?"

"Yes, I guess that will do," you said, your voice softening just a fraction at the way he looked—struggling with the books but still trying to look cool. "Even though I’d appreciate it if you could try to hand it to me tonight."

"When would I get time?" he asked, sounding genuinely harassed.

"Midnight feast," you said matter-of-factly. "The Great Hall is always open. You have no excuse."

"I'll try," he muttered, adjusting his grip on the stack. "No promises."

"Goodbye, Benito."

"Bye, princesseca," he called out, a smirk audible in his voice even as you turned away.

You felt the heat rush to your cheeks again, a deep, traitorous blush. You gripped the straps of your bag and walked faster, the sound of his laughter echoing faintly against the stone walls of Hogwarts.

The rest of the day was a blur of parchment and ink, but your mind was elsewhere—specifically, stuck on a certain Gryffindor whose Spanish was as smooth as his ego was large.

By the time 11:30 PM rolled around, the Ravenclaw common room was a graveyard of abandoned quill caps and snoring fifth-years. You, however, were wide awake. You checked your reflection in a darkened window, smoothing out your sweater. It wasn't for him, you told yourself. It was for the sake of the project. You couldn't have a disorganized partner; it would disrupt your entire ecosystem.

Slipping out of the tower, you navigated the moving staircases with the practiced ease of a local. The castle at night was different—the shadows were longer, the portraits were grumpier, and the air smelled of snuffed candles and old stone.

When you reached the Great Hall, the massive oak doors were slightly ajar. A single long table was lit by a cluster of floating candles, casting a warm, golden glow over the empty space. And there he was.

Benito was sprawled out across the bench, one leg hooked over the table and a piece of toast hanging precariously from his mouth. He wasn't wearing his robes anymore; he was in a oversized black sweater, his curls even more chaotic than they had been in the greenhouse.

"You're late," you whispered, your voice echoing off the high rafters.

He didn't jump. Instead, he slowly turned his head, a slow smirk spreading across his face as he swallowed the toast. "And you're exactly on time. Very Ravenclaw of you, reina."

"It’s called being punctual," you countered, sliding onto the bench opposite him. You pointedly ignored the way the candlelight caught the gold in his eyes. "Do you have it?"

"Directa al grano," he chuckled, shaking his head. "Always business with you. Don't you ever just... breathe? Look at the stars? Eat a pastry?"

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of parchment, smoothing it out on the table with a theatrical flourish. Beside it, he placed a small, napkin-wrapped bundle. "My Quidditch schedule. And," he unwrapped the napkin to reveal two warm, chocolate-filled croissants, "bribes. From the kitchens. The house-elves love me."

"I don't need bribes, Benito. I need you to understand the difference between a Venomous Tentacula and a Flitterbloom."

"I know the difference," he said, his voice dropping into that low, husky tone again. He leaned across the table, his face inches from yours. "One tries to eat you, and the other just wants to dance. I’m more of a dancer myself."

You felt that familiar heat rising to your cheeks. To hide it, you snatched up the schedule and peered at it. "You have practice four times a week? At five in the morning?"

"Champions don't sleep," he said, though he looked like he could nap for a decade right there on the table. "But I have a gap on Tuesday afternoons. And Sunday nights."

"Sunday nights are for the library," you said firmly.

"Sunday nights are for fun, y/n. But fine. If it means I get to hear you speak Spanish again, I’ll suffer through the library." He picked up a croissant and held it out to you. "Eat. You look like you’re about to start calculating the gravitational pull of the moon. Relax for five minutes."

You looked at the croissant, then at him. His eyes were softer now, less "cocky Gryffindor" and more "boy who stayed up late just to meet you."

"Fine," you muttered, taking the pastry. It was still warm, the chocolate melting onto your fingers. "But we start the research on Tuesday. No excuses. If you show up late, I’m changing the partnership to a solo project and telling Sprout you’ve been transmuted into a teapot."

Benito laughed, a deep, rich sound that made the candles flicker. "You're mean. I like it."

He watched you take a bite of the croissant, a satisfied look on his face. For a moment, the silence of the Great Hall wasn't heavy—it was comfortable. The smell of chocolate and old wood felt like a secret the two of you were sharing.

"So," he said, breaking the silence. "Spanish and German? Why?"

"Knowledge is the only thing they can't take away from you," you said simply, dabbing a bit of chocolate from your lip.

Benito’s gaze lingered on your mouth for a second too long before he looked back up at your eyes. "True. But sometimes, you have to stop reading about the world and actually live in it. I could teach you things that aren't in those books, princesseca."

"Like how to fall off a broom?" you quipped.

"Like how to win," he whispered, a playful glint in his eyes.

You stood up, clutching the schedule to your chest like a shield. "We'll see about that. Tuesday. Don't forget your notes."

"I won't," he promised, leaning back and watching you walk toward the doors. "And y/n?"

You paused, looking back over your shoulder.

"You have chocolate on your cheek," he said, pointing to his own face with a wink.

You frantically wiped your face, feeling your heart hammer against your ribs as you hurried out of the hall. Behind you, you could hear him humming a reggaeton beat under his breath, the sound fading as you climbed the stairs toward the safety of the Ravenclaw tower.

The project hadn't even started, and you already knew this was going to be the longest year of your life.

By the time you reached the eagle knocker of the Ravenclaw tower, you weren't just blushing—you were fuming. The cool, nocturnal air of the corridors usually settled your thoughts, but tonight it only seemed to fan the flames of your irritation.

"Princesseca," you hissed to yourself, the word feeling like a spark on your tongue. "The nerve. The absolute, unmitigated Gryffindor gall."

The bronze eagle stared at you with its blank, metallic eyes. "What has a heart that does not beat, and a tongue that does not speak?" it asked in its melodic, ethereal voice.

"A shoe," you snapped, perhaps a bit too aggressively. "Now let me in before I transmute this door into a pile of toothpicks."

The door swung open, and you marched into the blue-and-bronze sanctuary of the common room. It was near-empty, save for a few seventh-years buried under a mountain of Arithmancy charts. You sank into your favorite velvet armchair by the window, the Scottish stars blurring behind the glass.

You pulled out the crumpled Quidditch schedule he’d given you. The handwriting was atrocious—sharp, slanted, and chaotic, just like the person who wrote it. There were even little doodles of snitches in the margins. You stared at it until the parchment began to vibrate in your trembling grip.

"He thinks this is a game," you whispered to the empty room. "He thinks he can just show up with a smuggled croissant and a wink and I’ll just... what? Do all the work while he hums along to whatever rhythmic nonsense is bouncing around that thick skull of his?"

The sheer inefficiency of him was what truly grated. You had spent your entire academic career cultivating a reputation for precision. You were the girl who knew the botanical properties of Mimbulus mimbletonia by heart; he was the boy who probably thought "organic chemistry" was a brand of hair gel.

You aggressively wiped your cheek again, even though you were certain the chocolate was gone. You could still feel the phantom heat of his gaze, that lazy, heavy-lidded look that seemed to say he knew exactly how much he was bothering you. And he liked it. That was the worst part. He wasn't just lazy; he was a provocateur.

"I am going to bury him in the Restricted Section," you muttered, pulling a fresh piece of parchment toward you. You began to draft a "Partnership Contract," pressing the quill down so hard the nib squeaked in protest.

Clause 1: No nicknames.

Clause 2: No humming.

Clause 3: Spanish is for academic translation only.

You paused, the image of him leaning across the table—smelling like rain, old parchment and mangos with a hint of mint, and something warm like cinnamon—flashing through your mind. You shook your head violently, your hair whipping against your neck.

"He is a distraction," you told yourself firmly. "A loud, arrogant, Quidditch-obsessed distraction who clearly thinks Ravenclaws are just walking encyclopedias meant for his entertainment."

You spent the next hour color-coding a study guide so intense it would make a Gringotts goblin weep. If Benito wanted to pass this year, he was going to have to survive you first. By the time you finally climbed the spiral stairs to your dormitory, your jaw was tight and your eyes were bright with a very specific kind of competitive fire.

He wanted to play? Fine. But he had no idea that in the library, you didn't just play—you reigned supreme.

[cruefools]

HELLO birdies, to everyone waiting on the Hans Landa Fan fic it’s coming soon I promise!! Just two extremely large chapters that need editing and rewriting so it matches the movie plot, but it’s coming soon hopefully this week or maybe in the next few days!

[cruefools]

﹒⸝⸝ ⧣₊˚ AISLE FIVE

A shy cashier and a loud, beatboxing grocery bagger in Puerto Rico grow from teasing coworkers to first love, as she believes in Benito’s DJ dreams long before the world knows his name — and stands proudly by his side when he finally makes it big.

Paring. Benito Antonio Martinez Ocasio x reader

I’m actually obsessed with this man now, I’m going try to write the hell out of him until I eventually get bored him of (which is never) and hopefully I’ll focus on my other fics which I should be writing at the moment seeing as I have a free day off but whatever, I honestly hope you guys enjoy this!!

The grocery store sat on a busy corner in Puerto Rico where the afternoon sun always made the front windows glow gold. The bell above the door was loud and dramatic, ringing like someone had just entered a royal ballroom instead of a neighborhood market. The floors were slightly uneven, the fridge in aisle three hummed like it was thinking deeply about life, and the same three songs played on the radio every single shift. It wasn’t special. It wasn’t glamorous. But for you, it was where everything important quietly began.

You worked the register with careful precision. Your hair was always neatly tied back, your name tag straight, your uniform tucked in properly. You counted change twice before handing it over, even when the line was long. You apologized when customers bumped into you. You said “thank you” softly and meant it every time. You didn’t like drawing attention to yourself, and you certainly didn’t like breaking rules.

Benito, on the other hand, behaved like the grocery store was a stage that had simply not yet realized its potential

He bagged groceries like it was choreography. He stacked items in the bags with exaggerated care, narrating what he was doing under his breath like a cooking show host. He greeted customers as if they were long-lost family members. If someone bought one item, he asked about their day. If someone bought twenty items, he made commentary about their snack choices like he was reviewing them for an audience.

You would feel your stomach twist with secondhand embarrassment, whispering urgently from behind the register, “Benito, please just bag the groceries.”

“They love me,” he would respond confidently, flashing a grin that was impossible not to notice

The worst part was that sometimes they actually did.

The first time Mr. Alvarez assigned you both to restock shelves together, you immediately felt nervous. You liked tasks that were quiet and structured. You liked being left alone to organize things neatly and efficiently. Restocking aisle five should have been simple. Cans in order. Labels facing forward. Expiration dates checked. Done.

Benito treated aisle five like it was a rehearsal studio.

You were carefully arranging tomato cans by date when you heard the soft rhythm start behind you. At first it was subtle. A beat under his breath. Then a little bass sound. Then full beatboxing that echoed lightly between the shelves.

“Benito,” you whispered sharply without turning around, “please stop. Mr. Alvarez is nearby.”

“He appreciates talent,” he replied smoothly, stacking cans in rhythm with his beat.

“He appreciates silence.”

He suddenly grabbed two cereal boxes, holding one to his mouth like a microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to aisle five, where we have discounts and rhythm.”

You froze, eyes widening as a customer slowly pushed their cart past you, staring openly. Your ears burned. “Put those down,” you hissed.

He leaned closer, lowering his voice but not enough. “You’re my assistant DJ.”

“I am not.”

“Yes you are. Say something cool.”

“I’m organizing inventory.”

He looked at you like you had personally disappointed him. “That is not cool.”

You were 90 percent sure you were going to lose your job because this boy did not understand volume control. When he suddenly reached toward your arm and pretended to scan it like a barcode, whispering “beep,” you lightly smacked his shoulder, trying not to smile even though you absolutely wanted to.

The thing was, he always stopped the second he sensed you were genuinely uncomfortable. When Mr. Alvarez actually appeared at the end of the aisle with that serious look, Benito instantly straightened his posture and began stacking cans perfectly, face completely innocent. If there was an award for dramatic personality switches, he would have won.

“See?” he whispered after the manager walked away. “Professional.”

“You’re unbelievable,” you murmured, though your lips betrayed you by curving slightly.

But when a customer once made a rude comment about how slow you were scanning items, Benito stepped forward without theatrics and calmly handled the situation, redirecting the mood and making the customer laugh instead. When you struggled lifting a heavy box of bottled water, he took it from you gently without making it a spectacle. He was loud and spontaneous, yes, but he noticed everything. Especially you.

Your breaks always overlapped, even though neither of you admitted it was intentional. Behind the store there was a small patch of shade from a tired-looking tree, and you both sat on the curb like it was reserved seating. Benito always brought two sodas without asking. Cola for you. Orange for him. He would pop the can open dramatically, then pass yours to you like it was an offering.

“You’re too quiet,” he told you once, leaning back on his hands and squinting at the sky

“I talk,” you said softly.

“You blink.”

You looked at him in disbelief. He grinned like that was the funniest thing he had ever said.

Then he would start talking about music. Always music. His hands moved when he spoke, describing beats in the air, explaining rhythms like they were living creatures. He talked about performing one day, about crowds shouting lyrics back to him, about not wanting to bag groceries forever.

You listened more than you spoke. Sometimes you didn’t fully understand the ambition in his voice, but you understood the sincerity. He wasn’t joking when he talked about it. Not really.

“One day people are going to scream my name,” he said once, completely serious. You took a slow sip of your soda and thought about it. “Okay.”

“That’s it? Okay?”

“I mean… that sounds loud.”

He stared at you like you were impossible. “You don’t get it.”

“I just don’t know why you want strangers yelling.”

“Because it means you made it.”

You studied his face then. The way his confidence wasn’t arrogance. It was hope. And without fully realizing it, you said quietly, “I think you could.”

He went quiet for once. He bumped his shoulder lightly against yours and didn’t joke about it.

The store was busy that afternoon. The scanner beeped repeatedly as you moved items across it in steady rhythm. You were focused, counting coins carefully while a customer took forever to decide between bills. You didn’t even notice Benito return from his break until you felt his presence leaning casually against your counter.

“Why are you standing there?” you asked under your breath.

“Working,” he replied confidently.

“You’re leaning.”

“That’s part of the job.” You shook your head but didn’t look at him. He watched you for a moment, unusually quiet. “I got invited somewhere tonight,” he said finally.

“Mm-hmm,” you responded, scanning a carton of milk.

“I’m DJing.”

That made you pause. You slowly turned your head. “Since when do you DJ, Benny?”

He looked almost offended. “Since always.”

“You don’t own equipment.”

“I borrowed some.”

“From who?”

“A guy.”

“That sounds concerning.”

He rolled his eyes but you could see the hint of nerves behind the bravado. “It’s a small gathering. Nothing big.” You studied him for a second longer than necessary. He suddenly looked less loud and more hopeful.

“Come with me,” he added, softer.

Your heart skipped unexpectedly. “Why?”

“Because I don’t want to look stupid alone.”

You smiled despite yourself. “You won’t look stupid.”

“You don’t know that.”

You hesitated only a moment. “Okay. I’ll come.” The smile he tried to suppress failed completely.

It really was just someone’s backyard. The grass was uneven, a little dry in patches, and the plastic chairs were the kind that made a squeaky sound every time someone shifted their weight. String lights were hanging from one side of the fence to the other, slightly crooked, blinking lazily like they were trying their best. Someone’s aunt was inside yelling for people to stop going in and out of the kitchen. The speakers weren’t top quality. The table Benito was using as a DJ booth was clearly borrowed from someone’s dining room.

It wasn’t glamorous.

But when Benito stepped behind that little folding table and put the headphones over his curls, something changed.

You had spent months watching him joke around in the grocery store, beatboxing between cereal aisles, pretending cans were microphones and turning restocking into a concert rehearsal. You were used to the loud, playful version of him — the one who teased you until your ears turned red and made customers laugh even when you were trying to keep everything calm.

This was different.

He adjusted the controls with steady hands. He leaned forward slightly, listening carefully to the transitions. His shoulders relaxed in a way you had never seen at work. There was no performance for attention. No exaggerated jokes. No teasing commentary. Just focus. Just music.

When the first smooth transition hit and the small crowd reacted with surprised cheers, your heart jumped.

He did that.

You stood near the fence, fingers loosely laced together in front of you, trying not to look too obvious about how proud you felt. You weren’t loud like the others. You didn’t scream or jump. You just watched him carefully, memorizing the way he moved his head to the rhythm, the way he bit his lip slightly when concentrating.

Then he looked up.

His eyes searched the backyard quickly — scanning faces — and when they found you standing there quietly watching him like he mattered more than the music, his entire expression softened.

Not the big dramatic grin he used at work

A small one.

Private.

For you.

And after that, he played even better. More confident. Smoother transitions. Bolder song choices. Like he needed you there. Like you were proof that he wasn’t crazy for dreaming. When the party slowly started winding down and people began gathering their things, he packed up the borrowed equipment carefully, still riding the leftover adrenaline. You waited a little distance away, rocking slightly on your heels, pretending not to stare at him.

When he finally walked over, his hair slightly messy from the headphones and his cheeks still warm from excitement, he looked almost shy.

“Ready?” he asked casually, like he hadn’t just performed for everyone.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

The walk home was warm and slow. The streets of Puerto Rico at night had their own rhythm — distant music from other houses, a dog barking somewhere far off, the soft hum of passing cars. The air felt heavy but comforting, like it was wrapping around both of you.

For the first few steps, neither of you said much.

He kept glancing at you, You pretended not to notice. Finally he cleared his throat. “So?”

You looked up at him, confused. “So what?”

“What did you think?” He tried to sound relaxed, but there was something nervous under it. He kicked lightly at a loose pebble on the sidewalk. You didn’t answer immediately. You were thinking carefully, because you didn’t want it to sound like you were just being nice.

“You didn’t look scared,” you said softly.

He blinked. “That’s your review?”

“You didn’t look like you were pretending,” you continued. “You looked… like you belonged there.” He slowed his steps a little. “Really?” he asked, and this time the confidence wasn’t loud. It was hopeful.

“Yes,” you said simply. “You were really good.”

He let out a small breath like he had been holding it all night. “I messed up one transition.”

“No one noticed.”

“I noticed.”

“You always notice everything,” you said gently. He looked at you sideways. “You were watching that closely?” You immediately felt shy. “I was just standing there.”

“Mm-hmm,” he teased lightly. “Just standing there staring at me.”

“I was not staring.”

“You were.”

“I was observing.”

He laughed softly, the sound warm in the quiet street. “Observing, huh?” You tried to look serious. “Yes.” There was a small comfortable silence after that. The kind that doesn’t feel awkward.

“You really think I could do that for real?” he asked suddenly.

You looked at him again. Not at the loud grocery store boy. Not at the clown in aisle five. But at the version of him you saw tonight — steady, focused, happy.

“Yes,” you said without hesitation.

He didn’t joke about it this time. He didn’t brush it off. He just looked forward, absorbing your answer like it meant more than all the cheers from the party.

As you reached your street, the lights from your house glowing softly at the end of it, your hands brushed accidentally when you both slowed down at the same time. Neither of you moved away, Your fingers barely touched. Just the sides. Warm. Careful. He looked down at your hand for a second, then back at you. “You came,” he said quietly.

“Of course I did.”

“Even though you thought I was borrowing illegal equipment.

You smiled. “I still think that.”

He grinned, stepping a little closer as you reached your gate. “Thanks for coming.”

“Thanks for asking.” There was a pause there. A soft one. The kind where something could happen, but doesn’t have to yet.

“You’re gonna get famous one day,” you said gently.

He tilted his head. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He looked at you like he wanted to say something bigger. Something braver. But instead he just smiled in that shy, softer way that only showed up when he wasn’t performing for anyone else.

“Goodnight,” he said.

“Goodnight, Benny.” You said softly and looked him in the eyes deeply, slowly you leaned in and pecked him on the lips delicately before smiling and chuckling, you covered you’re pink lips and quickly went to you’re house as the young boy stood there in shock.

As you walked inside and glanced back once, he was still standing there for a second longer than necessary, hands in his pockets, smiling to himself under the Puerto Rican night sky.

As the years passed after that first backyard party, life didn’t explode overnight. It grew. Slowly. Steadily. Like something being built brick by brick.

You moved from grocery store shifts to studio visits. From curbside sodas to late-night car rides while he played you rough demos through cheap speakers. You were there when he recorded in tiny rooms with foam panels taped to walls. You were there when his voice cracked from trying to perfect a hook. You were there when he doubted himself, when a song didn’t hit, when money was tight, when he questioned if he was chasing something too big.

But you never doubted him.

And he never stopped looking at you first after finishing a new song.

By 2018, everything was different. His name was bigger. His shows were louder. His schedule was full. But when he proposed to you at twenty-four, it didn’t feel rushed or crazy or young.

It felt right.

He didn’t do it in some over-the-top dramatic way. It was private. Emotional. Just the two of you somewhere quiet in Puerto Rico, the sun setting in soft orange behind him as his hands shook slightly while holding the ring.

“You’ve been with me since nothing,” he told you, voice unsteady. “Before anyone cared.”

You cried immediately.

“I don’t want any of this without you.”

You said yes before he even finished.

You married young. But it didn’t feel young. It felt like choosing your best friend. And for a while, it was beautiful. He cherished you. Publicly and privately. When he mentioned love in songs, when he talked about loyalty, when he hinted at devotion — it was about you. You knew it. His team knew it. His friends knew it.

But there were parts you struggled with, Sometimes he’d play you a demo in the car, looking at you expectantly.

“What do you think?” he’d ask, bouncing slightly in his seat.

And you would hesitate.

Some songs were raw. Sexual. Detailed in ways that made you uncomfortable. You understood artistry. You understood image. But sometimes it felt too exposed. Too graphic. Too much of something that felt private to you.

“You don’t like it,” he’d notice immediately, his smile dropping.

“It’s good,” you’d say carefully.

“But?”

You’d sigh softly. “It’s just… a bit much.”

“A bit much how?”

“It sounds…” You struggled for the word. “Repulsive.”

He would sit back, slightly defensive. “It’s real. It’s honest.”

“I know. I just don’t want to hear you describing that to millions of people.”

“It’s music.”

“It’s still you.”

Those conversations started gently.

But as fame grew, so did tension.

He began feeding off the attention. The screaming fans. The women throwing themselves forward at concerts. He didn’t cheat. But he liked being admired. You could see it. The way he’d hold eye contact a second too long. The way he’d smirk at the front row.

One night, after a massive show in LA, you snapped.

Back at home, still in your heels, adrenaline mixed with hurt, you turned to him sharply. “You just fucking eye fucked someone else at the concert!”

He looked stunned. “What?”

“You know exactly what!”

“I was looking into the crowd.”

“You were locked onto her.”

“There were thousands of women!”

“Oh fuck off,” you shot back, your voice sharp in a way it never used to be.

Silence filled the room.

He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “You’re overthinking.” Shocked by your reaction and the sudden swearing, sure you made it clear before you didn’t enjoy his lingering eyes and touches with others but today you seemed to be off like a fire.

“And you’re careless.”

He hated that word.

Careless.

The truth was, he didn’t see it the way you did. To him, it was performance energy. To you, it felt intimate. Personal. Disrespectful.

And slowly, without either of you realizing at first, you began to change.

You stopped laughing as easily. You stopped reaching for him automatically. Your softness retreated inward. You became quieter, but not in the warm shy way from the grocery store.

This was colder.

You answered shorter. You touched less. You smiled less in private, And he noticed, One night he watched you sitting at the kitchen island scrolling silently on your phone, and something twisted in his chest.

You used to lean against him while he talked.

You used to bump his shoulder playfully.

Now you felt… distant.

He knew why.

He knew it was him.

He loved you because you were kind. Open. Gentle. Bright. You grounded him. You were his calm. And now that calm felt frozen over.

That’s when he made a decision.

“We’re going home,” he said one day.

“What?”

“Puerto Rico. For a while. No America. No big shows. Just home.”

And you didn’t argue.

Back in Puerto Rico, things slowed.

Family dinners. Cousins dropping by unannounced. Familiar streets. Familiar air. Spanish flowing without translation. No paparazzi outside the gate. No screaming crowds. Just warmth.

You visited your family. You visited his. You walked through old neighborhoods. You drove past the grocery store one afternoon and both of you went quiet at the same time.

“I used to beatbox in there,” he said softly.

“You were so annoying.”

“You loved it.”

You didn’t deny it.

The beach day was what broke you.

He insisted on packing everything himself. Two big bags over one arm. A cooler tucked against his hip. A large towel thrown over his shoulder. He refused help even though you offered.

“I got it,” he said.

You walked behind him on the sand, watching the way he adjusted the bags carefully so nothing would fall. Watching him spread the large towel out gently, smoothing it flat with concentration like it was the most important task in the world.

The sun hit his curls. His expression was soft. Peaceful. Not performing. Not posturing. Just him.

The old Benito.

The one from aisle five.

The one who used to bring you soda without asking.

Your chest tightened unexpectedly, You didn’t even realize you were crying until your vision blurred. He turned around mid-motion and froze.

“Mi amor?” His voice dropped instantly.

He let the bags fall into the sand without caring and rushed toward you.

“Hey. Hey.” His hands came to your face gently. “What happened?”

You shook your head, tears falling faster now, and stepped into him, burying your face in his neck, gripping his shirt tightly. “I missed you,” you mumbled against his skin, voice breaking. “I missed you so much.”

His entire body went still.

He understood.

He wrapped both arms around you firmly, holding you like he used to after small grocery shifts when the world felt simple.

“I’m right here,” he whispered, voice thick. “I’m right here.” His own eyes burned. He pressed his lips together to keep them steady and held you tighter.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured into your hair. “I never meant to lose us.”

You cried harder at that.

Not because he cheated.

Not because he didn’t love you, But because fame had stretched something between you and you both finally felt it, On that beach, with the ocean loud and the sand warm under your feet, you held each other without ego. Without audience. Without performance.

Just two people who started in a grocery store.

And found each other again at home.

[mountaindewslushy]

I love this concept 🥹🥹

[cruefools]

Hiiii i love your works and this is my first time requesting hehe

Can you do benito x reader with a plot of party 4 u by chali xcx. Like benito is making a party for reader (you can do the reason why), but reader didn't came cause she think he's too high to reach.

Or

Reader making party and benito is invited, but he's to busy (having a party or work) to come

Pls make it angst but fluff at the end thank youuuu (⁠◍⁠•⁠ᴗ⁠•⁠◍⁠)

Hello!! Yes ofc I’d love to write this, and I actually love this concept of party for you because it always reminds me of great gatsby, when Jay was a dirt poor boy and grew and became famous and rich but secluded, not much like Benito, because he’s surrounded by his culture and family but during the early stages of his fame I think he lost himself a bit but as he grew and became more mature, enjoy!!

﹒⸝⸝ ⧣₊˚ IT NEVER WAS ABOUT, THE PARTY OR THE DRUGS FOR YOU THERE IS ONLY LOVE

The party had been his idea, but it no longer felt like it belonged to him.

From the balcony, Benito watched it unfold the way a man might watch a city he built from the outside—beautiful, loud, untouchable. Gold light poured from every window of the mansion, spilling over the marble steps and across the gardens like something excessive and unapologetic. The pool shimmered under floating candles, their reflections trembling every time bass rolled through the ground. Champagne towers stood like monuments. Silk dresses caught the light in flashes of ivory and emerald. Laughter rose in polished waves, effortless and rehearsed.

He had planned every detail.

The orchestra hidden behind palms, playing old reggaeton melodies slowed into something orchestral and nostalgic. The vintage cars lining the driveway—not to impress, but to remember. The specific scent drifting through the halls, warm and faintly sweet, because it reminded him of humid nights in San Juan when ambition was still louder than fear.

People called his name from below.

He lifted a hand in acknowledgment, a practiced half-smile curving his mouth. Cameras flashed. Glasses were raised in his direction. He looked immaculate in white linen, gold resting lightly at his throat, rings catching the chandelier light. He looked like a man who had everything.

And maybe he did.

But standing there, watching hundreds of people celebrate him, he felt an old emptiness stirring beneath his ribs.

This was the life he once begged for.

The race tracks in Monaco. The after-parties in Paris. The yachts. The rooms filled with people who wanted to be near him simply because he was him. He had chased it relentlessly. He had earned it.

And somewhere along the way, he had lost the only person who had loved him before any of this existed.

He descended the staircase slowly, deliberately, like a king stepping into his court. Hands reached for him. Strangers laughed too loudly at his jokes. Women leaned close, perfume clinging to the air between them. Men clapped him on the back and reminded him of “how far he’d come.”

He moved through it all effortlessly.

But his eyes kept drifting toward the entrance.

He told himself it didn’t matter whether you came.

He told himself this was just nostalgia.

He told himself he wasn’t waiting.

But every time the gates opened and headlights cut through the golden haze, his chest tightened.

He remembered the first party he ever took you to after the money started coming in. It had been smaller than this—louder than necessary, filled with people who didn’t know how to be quiet around success. You had stood beside him, fingers wrapped gently around his wrist, smiling politely when strangers introduced themselves with exaggerated admiration.

Later that night, when the music was too loud and the room smelled like spilled liquor and something chemical, he had looked at you and asked, almost casually:

“¿Te gusta esto?” (Do you like this?)

You had blinked, confused.

“Me gustas tú.” (I like you.) You replied back innocently.

He hadn’t understood then how simple your answer was. As the fame grew, so did the suspicion. Everyone wanted something. Everyone smiled too wide. Everyone had a proposal.

And instead of protecting you from that noise, he let it infect him.

He had looked at you differently.

Measured you differently.

Doubted you.

Tonight’s party was grander than anything you had ever attended together. Bigger than the nights that had first driven the wedge between you. The music thundered. The pool glowed like liquid sapphire. Guests danced with reckless abandon, drunk on proximity to his world.

He was in the center of it.

And still searching.

For a moment, Benito thought his mind was playing a cruel trick on him. The crowd moved in waves, bodies colliding softly under chandeliers, silk brushing against linen, perfume and salt air tangling together. And then there you were—standing just beyond the edge of the dance floor, half-shadowed, half-bathed in gold. You weren’t dazzling in diamonds. You weren’t sculpted in extravagance like the women orbiting him all night. You were simple. Real. Almost fragile in the middle of so much noise.

His chest tightened so sharply he had to steady himself.

Memories did not return gently. They flooded. You on the floor of his first apartment, legs tucked under you while he rapped verses over a broken speaker. You laughing when he missed a lyric and swearing he would be “el más grande.” You holding his face in your hands when doubt consumed him. You fighting with him in kitchens too small for anger, then kissing him before either of you could finish saying sorry. He moved toward you without realizing it. Through the bodies. Through the noise. Through the hands that reached for him. When he finally stood in front of you, everything else dissolved.

“Viniste.” (You came.) His voice was softer than the one the world knew. Younger. “Me invitaste.” (You invited me.) Silence pressed between you, heavy and trembling. “No pensé que vendrías.” (I didn’t think you would come.)

“Yo tampoco sabía si debía.” (I didn’t know if I should have.)

The bass trembled through the marble floors, but neither of you looked away. “Hice todo esto porque no sabía cómo hablarte.” (I did all of this because I didn’t know how to talk to you.)

“Porque cuando tengo que decir algo importante… siempre lo arruino.” (Because when I have to say something important… I always ruin it.) You let out a soft, almost broken breath. “Eso nunca fue el problema.” (That was never the problem.) He swallowed.

“¿Entonces cuál fue?” (Then what was it?)

You glanced around at the gold, the lights, the excess.

“Cambiaste.” (You changed.)

The word wasn’t cruel. It was tired. “Cuando llegó el dinero… cuando llegó la fama… empezaste a mirarme diferente.” (When the money came… when the fame came… you started looking at me differently.)

He inhaled sharply.

“No fue así.” (It wasn’t like that.)

“Sí fue así.” (Yes, it was.)

Your voice didn’t rise.

“Empezaste a pensar que yo estaba contigo por lo que tenías.” (You started thinking I was with you for what you had.)

“Que me gustaban las fiestas. Los carros. La gente famosa.” (That I liked the parties. The cars. The famous people.) His jaw tightened with shame.

“Porque todos querían algo.”

(Because everyone wanted something.)

“Todos.” (Everyone.)

“Amigos que no estaban antes. Gente que nunca me miró ahora quería estar cerca.” (Friends who weren’t there before. People who never looked at me suddenly wanted to be close.) His voice cracked slightly.

“Y pensé que tú también.” (And I thought you did too.) The hurt in your eyes deepened. “Yo estuve cuando no tenías nada.” (I was there when you had nothing.)

“Cuando no había fiestas.” (When there were no parties.)

“Cuando nadie gritaba tu nombre.” (When nobody was shouting your name.)

Your voice trembled now.

“Yo estaba ahí porque te amaba.” (I was there because I loved you.) Amaba. Past tense.It cut through him.

“Nunca quise tu dinero.” (I never wanted your money.)

“Nunca quise las drogas en esas mesas.” (I never wanted the drugs on those tables.)

“Nunca me importaron los VIP, ni las cámaras, ni los viajes.” (I never cared about VIP sections, or cameras, or trips.)

You stepped closer. “Yo iba porque tú querías ir.” (I went because you wanted to go.)

“Yo me quedaba porque tú estabas ahí.” (I stayed because you were there.)

He closed his eyes for a moment. “Pensé que te gustaba ese mundo.” (I thought you liked that world.)

You shook your head gently.

“Me gustabas tú.” (I liked you.)

“Nada más.” (Nothing else.)

The confession was soft.

Devastating.

“Cuando me miraste como si yo estuviera contigo por interés…” (When you looked at me like I was with you for convenience…)

Your voice broke. “Eso fue lo que me rompió.” (That’s what broke me.) His throat tightened painfully. “Nunca quise hacerte sentir así.” (I never wanted to make you feel that way.)

“Pero la fama me hizo desconfiar de todos.” (But fame made me distrust everyone.)

“Hasta de ti.” (Even you.) You exhaled slowly. “Y yo era la única que no merecía eso.” (And I was the only one who didn’t deserve that.)

He nodded.

“Sí.” (Yes.)

You wiped a tear quickly.

“Yo no necesitaba nada de esto.” (I didn’t need any of this.)

“Yo necesitaba que confiaras en mí.” (I needed you to trust me.) He stepped closer, unable to stop himself.

“Te extraño.” (I miss you.)

The words sounded pulled from somewhere deep and raw. Your eyes softened instantly, “También te extraño.” (I miss you too.) He reached for your hands slowly, like you might disappear.

“Perdóname.” (Forgive me.)

“Por pensar que eras como los demás.” (For thinking you were like the others.)

“Por dejar que el dinero me hiciera ciego.” (For letting money make me blind.)

You searched his face.

“Yo nunca fui como los demás.” (I was never like the others.)

“Yo era tuya.” (I was yours.)

Not possession. Just truth. He lifted his hand to your cheek, thumb brushing softly.

“Y yo siempre fui tuyo.” (And I was always yours.)

The air between you shifted.

Not erased.

Not healed completely.

But softened.

You stepped closer until your bodies nearly touched.

“¿Y ahora?” (And now?) He lowered his forehead against yours. “Ahora quiero hacerlo bien.” (Now I want to do it right.)

“Sin dudas.” (Without doubts.)

“Sin sospechas.” (Without suspicion.)

“Sin ese miedo absurdo de perder lo que nunca quise perder.” (Without that absurd fear of losing what I never wanted to lose.)

The party blurred into gold haze.

He kissed you slowly.

Not desperate.

Not frantic.

Just slow.

Like relearning something sacred, Your fingers curled into his shirt, and when your lips parted slightly against his, the kiss deepened—not in hunger, but in recognition. In familiarity. In the quiet ache of everything that had been lost and found again.

When you pulled back, your foreheads remained pressed together.

“Yo nunca quise la fama.”

(I never wanted fame.)

“Quise tus mañanas sin maquillaje.”

(I wanted your bare-faced mornings.)

“Tus canciones a medio escribir.”

(Your half-written songs.)

“Tus abrazos cuando nadie miraba.”

(Your hugs when nobody was watching.)

His eyes shone.

“Entonces quédate.” (Then stay.)

“Pero esta vez quédate conmigo.” (But this time stay with me.)

“No con lo que soy para el mundo.” (Not with what I am to the world.)

Your thumb traced gently along his jaw. “Siempre quise quedarme contigo.” (I always wanted to stay with you.)

“Solo necesitaba que tú también te quedaras.”

(I just needed you to stay too.)

And when he kissed you again—softer, slower, almost reverent—his arms wrapped fully around you, protective and grounding.

The mansion still glittered.

The music still roared.

Champagne still spilled like nothing mattered, But in the middle of all that gold and noise, the only thing that felt powerful— Was the softness.

[cruefools]

Hiiii i love your works and this is my first time requesting hehe

Can you do benito x reader with a plot of party 4 u by chali xcx. Like benito is making a party for reader (you can do the reason why), but reader didn't came cause she think he's too high to reach.

Or

Reader making party and benito is invited, but he's to busy (having a party or work) to come

Pls make it angst but fluff at the end thank youuuu (⁠◍⁠•⁠ᴗ⁠•⁠◍⁠)

Hello!! Yes ofc I’d love to write this, and I actually love this concept of party for you because it always reminds me of great gatsby, when Jay was a dirt poor boy and grew and became famous and rich but secluded, not much like Benito, because he’s surrounded by his culture and family but during the early stages of his fame I think he lost himself a bit but as he grew and became more mature, enjoy!!

﹒⸝⸝ ⧣₊˚ IT NEVER WAS ABOUT, THE PARTY OR THE DRUGS FOR YOU THERE IS ONLY LOVE

The party had been his idea, but it no longer felt like it belonged to him.

From the balcony, Benito watched it unfold the way a man might watch a city he built from the outside—beautiful, loud, untouchable. Gold light poured from every window of the mansion, spilling over the marble steps and across the gardens like something excessive and unapologetic. The pool shimmered under floating candles, their reflections trembling every time bass rolled through the ground. Champagne towers stood like monuments. Silk dresses caught the light in flashes of ivory and emerald. Laughter rose in polished waves, effortless and rehearsed.

He had planned every detail.

The orchestra hidden behind palms, playing old reggaeton melodies slowed into something orchestral and nostalgic. The vintage cars lining the driveway—not to impress, but to remember. The specific scent drifting through the halls, warm and faintly sweet, because it reminded him of humid nights in San Juan when ambition was still louder than fear.

People called his name from below.

He lifted a hand in acknowledgment, a practiced half-smile curving his mouth. Cameras flashed. Glasses were raised in his direction. He looked immaculate in white linen, gold resting lightly at his throat, rings catching the chandelier light. He looked like a man who had everything.

And maybe he did.

But standing there, watching hundreds of people celebrate him, he felt an old emptiness stirring beneath his ribs.

This was the life he once begged for.

The race tracks in Monaco. The after-parties in Paris. The yachts. The rooms filled with people who wanted to be near him simply because he was him. He had chased it relentlessly. He had earned it.

And somewhere along the way, he had lost the only person who had loved him before any of this existed.

He descended the staircase slowly, deliberately, like a king stepping into his court. Hands reached for him. Strangers laughed too loudly at his jokes. Women leaned close, perfume clinging to the air between them. Men clapped him on the back and reminded him of “how far he’d come.”

He moved through it all effortlessly.

But his eyes kept drifting toward the entrance.

He told himself it didn’t matter whether you came.

He told himself this was just nostalgia.

He told himself he wasn’t waiting.

But every time the gates opened and headlights cut through the golden haze, his chest tightened.

He remembered the first party he ever took you to after the money started coming in. It had been smaller than this—louder than necessary, filled with people who didn’t know how to be quiet around success. You had stood beside him, fingers wrapped gently around his wrist, smiling politely when strangers introduced themselves with exaggerated admiration.

Later that night, when the music was too loud and the room smelled like spilled liquor and something chemical, he had looked at you and asked, almost casually:

“¿Te gusta esto?” (Do you like this?)

You had blinked, confused.

“Me gustas tú.” (I like you.) You replied back innocently.

He hadn’t understood then how simple your answer was. As the fame grew, so did the suspicion. Everyone wanted something. Everyone smiled too wide. Everyone had a proposal.

And instead of protecting you from that noise, he let it infect him.

He had looked at you differently.

Measured you differently.

Doubted you.

Tonight’s party was grander than anything you had ever attended together. Bigger than the nights that had first driven the wedge between you. The music thundered. The pool glowed like liquid sapphire. Guests danced with reckless abandon, drunk on proximity to his world.

He was in the center of it.

And still searching.

For a moment, Benito thought his mind was playing a cruel trick on him. The crowd moved in waves, bodies colliding softly under chandeliers, silk brushing against linen, perfume and salt air tangling together. And then there you were—standing just beyond the edge of the dance floor, half-shadowed, half-bathed in gold. You weren’t dazzling in diamonds. You weren’t sculpted in extravagance like the women orbiting him all night. You were simple. Real. Almost fragile in the middle of so much noise.

His chest tightened so sharply he had to steady himself.

Memories did not return gently. They flooded. You on the floor of his first apartment, legs tucked under you while he rapped verses over a broken speaker. You laughing when he missed a lyric and swearing he would be “el más grande.” You holding his face in your hands when doubt consumed him. You fighting with him in kitchens too small for anger, then kissing him before either of you could finish saying sorry. He moved toward you without realizing it. Through the bodies. Through the noise. Through the hands that reached for him. When he finally stood in front of you, everything else dissolved.

“Viniste.” (You came.) His voice was softer than the one the world knew. Younger. “Me invitaste.” (You invited me.) Silence pressed between you, heavy and trembling. “No pensé que vendrías.” (I didn’t think you would come.)

“Yo tampoco sabía si debía.” (I didn’t know if I should have.)

The bass trembled through the marble floors, but neither of you looked away. “Hice todo esto porque no sabía cómo hablarte.” (I did all of this because I didn’t know how to talk to you.)

“Porque cuando tengo que decir algo importante… siempre lo arruino.” (Because when I have to say something important… I always ruin it.) You let out a soft, almost broken breath. “Eso nunca fue el problema.” (That was never the problem.) He swallowed.

“¿Entonces cuál fue?” (Then what was it?)

You glanced around at the gold, the lights, the excess.

“Cambiaste.” (You changed.)

The word wasn’t cruel. It was tired. “Cuando llegó el dinero… cuando llegó la fama… empezaste a mirarme diferente.” (When the money came… when the fame came… you started looking at me differently.)

He inhaled sharply.

“No fue así.” (It wasn’t like that.)

“Sí fue así.” (Yes, it was.)

Your voice didn’t rise.

“Empezaste a pensar que yo estaba contigo por lo que tenías.” (You started thinking I was with you for what you had.)

“Que me gustaban las fiestas. Los carros. La gente famosa.” (That I liked the parties. The cars. The famous people.) His jaw tightened with shame.

“Porque todos querían algo.”

(Because everyone wanted something.)

“Todos.” (Everyone.)

“Amigos que no estaban antes. Gente que nunca me miró ahora quería estar cerca.” (Friends who weren’t there before. People who never looked at me suddenly wanted to be close.) His voice cracked slightly.

“Y pensé que tú también.” (And I thought you did too.) The hurt in your eyes deepened. “Yo estuve cuando no tenías nada.” (I was there when you had nothing.)

“Cuando no había fiestas.” (When there were no parties.)

“Cuando nadie gritaba tu nombre.” (When nobody was shouting your name.)

Your voice trembled now.

“Yo estaba ahí porque te amaba.” (I was there because I loved you.) Amaba. Past tense.It cut through him.

“Nunca quise tu dinero.” (I never wanted your money.)

“Nunca quise las drogas en esas mesas.” (I never wanted the drugs on those tables.)

“Nunca me importaron los VIP, ni las cámaras, ni los viajes.” (I never cared about VIP sections, or cameras, or trips.)

You stepped closer. “Yo iba porque tú querías ir.” (I went because you wanted to go.)

“Yo me quedaba porque tú estabas ahí.” (I stayed because you were there.)

He closed his eyes for a moment. “Pensé que te gustaba ese mundo.” (I thought you liked that world.)

You shook your head gently.

“Me gustabas tú.” (I liked you.)

“Nada más.” (Nothing else.)

The confession was soft.

Devastating.

“Cuando me miraste como si yo estuviera contigo por interés…” (When you looked at me like I was with you for convenience…)

Your voice broke. “Eso fue lo que me rompió.” (That’s what broke me.) His throat tightened painfully. “Nunca quise hacerte sentir así.” (I never wanted to make you feel that way.)

“Pero la fama me hizo desconfiar de todos.” (But fame made me distrust everyone.)

“Hasta de ti.” (Even you.) You exhaled slowly. “Y yo era la única que no merecía eso.” (And I was the only one who didn’t deserve that.)

He nodded.

“Sí.” (Yes.)

You wiped a tear quickly.

“Yo no necesitaba nada de esto.” (I didn’t need any of this.)

“Yo necesitaba que confiaras en mí.” (I needed you to trust me.) He stepped closer, unable to stop himself.

“Te extraño.” (I miss you.)

The words sounded pulled from somewhere deep and raw. Your eyes softened instantly, “También te extraño.” (I miss you too.) He reached for your hands slowly, like you might disappear.

“Perdóname.” (Forgive me.)

“Por pensar que eras como los demás.” (For thinking you were like the others.)

“Por dejar que el dinero me hiciera ciego.” (For letting money make me blind.)

You searched his face.

“Yo nunca fui como los demás.” (I was never like the others.)

“Yo era tuya.” (I was yours.)

Not possession. Just truth. He lifted his hand to your cheek, thumb brushing softly.

“Y yo siempre fui tuyo.” (And I was always yours.)

The air between you shifted.

Not erased.

Not healed completely.

But softened.

You stepped closer until your bodies nearly touched.

“¿Y ahora?” (And now?) He lowered his forehead against yours. “Ahora quiero hacerlo bien.” (Now I want to do it right.)

“Sin dudas.” (Without doubts.)

“Sin sospechas.” (Without suspicion.)

“Sin ese miedo absurdo de perder lo que nunca quise perder.” (Without that absurd fear of losing what I never wanted to lose.)

The party blurred into gold haze.

He kissed you slowly.

Not desperate.

Not frantic.

Just slow.

Like relearning something sacred, Your fingers curled into his shirt, and when your lips parted slightly against his, the kiss deepened—not in hunger, but in recognition. In familiarity. In the quiet ache of everything that had been lost and found again.

When you pulled back, your foreheads remained pressed together.

“Yo nunca quise la fama.”

(I never wanted fame.)

“Quise tus mañanas sin maquillaje.”

(I wanted your bare-faced mornings.)

“Tus canciones a medio escribir.”

(Your half-written songs.)

“Tus abrazos cuando nadie miraba.”

(Your hugs when nobody was watching.)

His eyes shone.

“Entonces quédate.” (Then stay.)

“Pero esta vez quédate conmigo.” (But this time stay with me.)

“No con lo que soy para el mundo.” (Not with what I am to the world.)

Your thumb traced gently along his jaw. “Siempre quise quedarme contigo.” (I always wanted to stay with you.)

“Solo necesitaba que tú también te quedaras.”

(I just needed you to stay too.)

And when he kissed you again—softer, slower, almost reverent—his arms wrapped fully around you, protective and grounding.

The mansion still glittered.

The music still roared.

Champagne still spilled like nothing mattered, But in the middle of all that gold and noise, the only thing that felt powerful— Was the softness.

[cruefools]

Hello!! Guys please comment I actually love to hear your thoughts and opinions about the fan fics I write, thank you!🤍🪷

[cruefools]

FOUR: I WILL FOLLOW YOU, Tommy Shelby x oc!reader

( this was in my drafts for a VERY LONG TIME, hope you enjoy it!)

Tommy Shelby woke before the sun. Not because of nightmares. Not because of gunfire echoing in memory. Not because of business waiting on his desk. He woke because his son had promised Miss Leigh a riding lesson.

And worse — he had agreed.

His eyes opened to the pale gray light bleeding through heavy curtains, and for a moment he lay completely still, staring at the ceiling as if it had personally offended him. The estate was quiet. The kind of quiet that belonged to early morning before servants began their quiet choreography and before horses shifted impatiently in their stalls.

He did not need to be awake.

He was awake anyway.

He exhaled sharply through his nose and turned onto his side, pulling the pillow over his ear in an attempt to return to sleep out of pure defiance.

It did not work.

Because somewhere in the back of his mind was the memory of her standing in the garden days ago, sunlight caught in her hair, smiling at Charlie as though the world had never demanded caution from her. And the sound of her voice — light, amused — saying she would love to learn properly.

He rolled onto his back again.

This was absurd.

He had meetings in London that did not keep him awake. He had faced men with knives and slept soundly afterward. And yet here he was, alert at dawn because a woman with a dangerously curved smile might be waiting in his courtyard within the hour.

“Ridiculous,” he muttered to the ceiling.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed with unnecessary force.

If he was going to be dragged into this performance, he would at least maintain control of it.

He dressed deliberately. Not formal — this was not Parliament — but precise. Dark riding trousers fitted cleanly against his legs. A crisp shirt that he buttoned slowly, methodically, as if discipline alone could steady whatever had unsettled him. Sleeves rolled to mid-forearm. Boots pulled on and polished with a practiced hand.

He caught his reflection briefly.

He looked… ready.

That irritated him more.

He descended the staircase just as the house began to stir. The air carried that faint scent of polish and morning tea, the estate stretching wide beyond the tall windows. He expected to see Charlie already awake — eager, perhaps overly eager — but the halls were empty.

Tommy checked his pocket watch.

Too early.

Of course he was too early.

He stepped outside anyway.

The morning air was cool and sharp, brushing against his face with quiet clarity. The sky was just beginning to commit to blue, light sliding slowly over the estate grounds. He walked toward the stables with long, measured strides, hands clasped behind his back.

This was for Charlie.

He repeated that to himself. It had nothing to do with the way Miss Leigh’s eyes had lingered on him during tea. Nothing to do with the way she had asked, softly, whether he would teach her himself.

He reached the stable doors and pushed one open.

The horses shifted at his presence, familiar and steady. He ran a hand along a dark flank, grounding himself in something that made sense. Breath. Muscle. Warmth.

“Good morning,” he murmured to the animal, voice low and even.

There. That felt normal.

He adjusted a saddle, checked the bridle, tightened straps with deliberate precision. Routine. Control.

And then—

Laughter.

Soft at first. Distant.

It floated across the courtyard like something entirely unworried.

Tommy froze mid-motion.

He did not need to turn to know it was her.

But he did anyway.

From the back entrance of the mansion — framed by tall doors and morning light — Adelaide Leigh stood.

She was dressed properly this time.

Riding trousers fitted snugly along her legs, tailored and precise, hugging her hips before tapering cleanly down to polished boots. A light shirt tucked in neatly, sleeves rolled slightly, the fabric clinging just enough to suggest form without sacrificing propriety. Her hair was pinned back loosely, practical yet soft.

It was respectable.

It was devastating.

Charlie stood beside her — taller now, nearly a man — posture straight, hands politely folded behind his back as she spoke. He laughed at something she said, and she touched his arm briefly in playful emphasis.

Tommy’s jaw tightened.

From this distance, he could see the ease between them. The warmth. The way Charlie leaned in when she spoke. The way she tilted her head attentively, as though nothing in the world required her attention more than whatever the boy was saying.

She looked up.

And saw him.

There was no startle in her expression.

Only recognition.

And then — that smile.

Slow. Certain. Entirely too pleased.

Charlie followed her gaze and immediately raised a hand. “Da!”

Tommy did not wave.

He stepped out of the stable instead, boots striking stone with quiet authority as he crossed the courtyard toward them. He kept his expression neutral, controlled.

Inside, however—

Inside was chaos.

“You’re early,” he said evenly once he reached them.

“You’re earlier,” she replied lightly.

Charlie grinned between them. “I told her you wake before the sun.”

Tommy glanced at his son. “You say too much.”

Adelaide’s eyes sparkled. “I find it charming.”

He ignored that.

His gaze dropped briefly — traitorously — taking in the precise line of her attire, the way it fit her as though chosen with care. Practical. Yes. Entirely appropriate for riding.

But tailored.

Very tailored.

“You dressed correctly,” he said finally.

She straightened slightly. “I didn’t wish to embarrass you.”

“That would require effort.”

She tilted her head, studying him openly. “You assume I wouldn’t try.”

Charlie coughed, failing miserably at hiding his amusement.

Tommy exhaled slowly through his nose and gestured toward the stables. “If you’re going to learn, we’ll begin properly.”

Adelaide stepped forward first this time, no hesitation, boots firm against gravel. Charlie followed, but slowed deliberately, allowing space to open between himself and them.

Tommy noticed.

Of course he noticed.

He noticed everything.

And as he walked just behind her — close enough to see the careful set of her shoulders, the faint anticipation in her posture, the way morning light traced along the curve of her waist — he realized something deeply inconvenient.

He had woken early not out of duty, But because some part of him had wanted to. And that— That was far more dangerous than any lesson.

They reached the stable doors and the shift in air was immediate — cooler, dustier, grounded in hay and leather and animal warmth. It steadied him slightly. This was his territory. Here, things made sense. Horses did not flirt. They reacted to tone and touch and consistency.

Adelaide paused just inside the threshold, taking it in. The faint nervousness returned — subtle, but there. Her shoulders lifted just slightly. Her fingers brushed together once at her side before she tucked them calmly behind her back.

“You’ve been in stables before,” Tommy observed.

“I’ve visited them,” she corrected.

“That’s not the same.”

Charlie stepped forward eagerly. “This one’s the calmest,” he said, patting the side of a deep brown mare. “She won’t bolt.”

“That’s reassuring,” Adelaide murmured.

Tommy watched her closely now. The teasing was still there — it always would be — but beneath it was something honest. She was not posturing. She genuinely meant to learn.

That irritated him less than it should have.

“Stand here,” he instructed, stepping beside her. “Not directly behind. They kick.”

She shifted closer to the horse’s shoulder obediently. Close enough that her arm brushed his for a brief second.

Neither of them acknowledged it.

Charlie looked between them and then — suspiciously casual — cleared his throat. “I’ll check the other stall,” he said. “Make sure the gate latch is tight.”

Tommy’s eyes narrowed. “It’s always tight.”

“Still,” Charlie replied lightly, already backing away. “Just in case.”

And then he was gone.

Silence expanded in his absence.

Adelaide inhaled slowly, stepping closer to the horse. “You won’t let me fall, will you?”

It wasn’t flirtation this time.

It was softer.

Tommy’s jaw tightened. “You won’t fall.”

“That wasn’t what I asked.”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he reached for her elbow, guiding her hand toward the reins. His fingers were firm but careful, heat pressing through the thin cotton of her sleeve. She inhaled sharply — not dramatic, just aware.

“Grip here,” he said quietly.

She obeyed.

“Now the stirrup.”

She turned slightly, trying to position her foot properly. The trousers she wore fit closely, tailored clean to her legs. Practical. Yes. But the proximity made it impossible not to notice the exact line of her hip as she shifted.

She struggled.

He stepped closer.

Closer.

His hand settled at her waist to steady her.

For one suspended second, she leaned back instinctively into his hold, her back brushing against his chest. Her breath hitched — not out of fear, but surprise.

“Push,” he instructed.

She did.

Failed.

He tightened his grip and lifted, controlled strength making the movement almost effortless. She rose into the saddle with a small startled laugh, legs adjusting quickly as she found balance.

When he released her, the absence of contact felt louder than the contact had.

She looked down at him, cheeks faintly flushed. “You’re stronger than you look.”

His brow lifted slightly. “I look weak?”

She smiled slowly. “You look contained.”

He stepped back half a pace. “Sit straight.”

She adjusted.

“Relax your shoulders.”

“They are relaxed.”

“They are not.”

She exhaled in mock annoyance and dropped them deliberately.

He moved to the horse’s side, one hand lightly holding the bridle, the other hovering near her knee without touching. Just in case.

The horse took a small step.

She froze.

“It’s only walking,” he said evenly.

“I know.”

Another step.

She wobbled slightly and instinctively reached for him. His hand caught her thigh automatically to steady her. The contact was brief.

Firm.

Necessary.

Dangerous.

They both went still

Her eyes flicked down to where his hand rested before he removed it immediately, jaw set.

“You said you wouldn’t let me fall,” she murmured.

“I said you wouldn’t.” She smiled faintly, The horse continued forward, slow and patient. He walked beside her, close enough that his shoulder nearly brushed her boot.

“You love this,” she said quietly after a moment.

“Horses?”

“Control.” He didn’t respond, She leaned forward slightly, adjusting her grip more confidently now. “You trust them more than people.”

“They’re honest.”

“And I’m not?”

He looked up at her then.

Truly looked.

She held his gaze without flinching.

“You’re…” he began, then stopped.

“Complicated?” she offered.

He almost smiled.

Instead, he shook his head faintly. “Distracting.”

Her laughter was softer this time.

Behind them, Charlie reappeared, pretending very badly that he had not orchestrated this entire arrangement. He watched with quiet satisfaction as the horse completed a slow circle.

“She’s doing well,” Charlie said proudly.

“She listens,” Tommy replied.

Adelaide glanced down at him. “You sound surprised.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

The horse stopped.

Tommy reached up instinctively to steady her as she prepared to dismount. His hands found her waist again — this time longer, deliberate — lowering her carefully back to the ground. She landed close, Very close. Close enough that the front of her shirt brushed lightly against his chest before she stepped back.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Charlie cleared his throat loudly.

Tommy stepped away first.

“That’s enough for today,” he said. Adelaide tilted her head, breath still slightly uneven. “Already?”

“You’ve learned balance.” She smiled slowly. “I think I’ve learned more than that.” He did not ask what she meant, Because he already knew. And that knowledge sat warm and unsettling beneath his ribs.

The house was quiet in a way that made everything louder.

Tommy sat alone in his study long after the estate had settled into night, the faint glow of a single lamp cutting warm light across polished wood and untouched paperwork. The window beside him stood slightly open, cool air slipping in with the distant hum of countryside silence. Somewhere far off, a horse shifted in its stall.

He should have been working.

There were accounts to review. Correspondence to send. A meeting in London to prepare for.

Instead, he stared at nothing.

His glass of whiskey remained untouched in his hand, condensation sliding slowly down the side. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, but even that sound felt distant — like it belonged to another man in another room.

He exhaled.

And there it was again.

The memory.

Not her laugh. Not her teasing words.

The touch.

His hands at her waist.

He had steadied countless people before. Pulled men from trenches. Lifted Arthur when he’d fallen drunk and bleeding. Caught Charlie more times than he could count when the boy’s legs had been too small for the world he insisted on climbing.

This had not been different.

And yet it had been entirely different.

He could recall the exact weight of her under his palms — not heavy, not fragile, simply… present. Warm through fabric. Alive. The faint hitch in her breath when he had lifted her. The way she had leaned back for half a second, trusting him without hesitation.

Trust.

He did not like that word.

He drained half the whiskey in one swallow.

It was absurd that such a small thing lingered. Absurd that his hands still felt aware of her shape hours later. He flexed his fingers once, as if to shake it loose.

It did not leave.

The way she had looked down at him from the saddle — flushed, exhilarated, triumphant. Not mocking. Not coy. Just… delighted. As if she had discovered something new and liked it.

As if she had discovered him.

Tommy leaned back in his chair slowly, gaze lifting toward the ceiling. The quiet pressed in.

“You’re distracting,” he had said.

He had meant it lightly.

He had not meant it as confession.

He stood abruptly and crossed the room, restless energy pulling him toward the window. The night air cooled his skin instantly. He braced both hands on the sill and stared out across the dark grounds of the estate.

He had spent years building control. Layer upon layer of it. Control over business. Over men. Over reputation. Over himself.

And in a single morning, a woman in riding trousers had unsettled him with a smile and a simple, dangerous sentence:

You won’t let me fall, will you?

He hadn’t answered her.

Because the answer had been obvious.

Of course he wouldn’t.

That was the problem.

He closed his eyes briefly.

He could still see the way she had landed when he lowered her from the saddle — close enough that her shirt had brushed against his chest, close enough that for one suspended second neither of them had moved. It had not been scandalous.

It had been quiet.

Intentional.

His jaw tightened.

She knew exactly what she was doing.

Didn’t she?

Or was that projection?

That unsettled him more — the possibility that she was not calculating at all. That she simply existed that way. Open. Warm. Unafraid of proximity.

He scoffed softly under his breath.

“This is ridiculous.”

He pushed away from the window and paced once across the length of the study. The wooden floor creaked faintly under his weight. His reflection passed him briefly in the glass of a cabinet — composed, sharp, entirely unbothered.

A liar.

He poured another drink and this time didn’t touch it.

Instead, he leaned against his desk and let the memory replay properly.

Her foot searching for the stirrup.

His hand firm at her waist.

The slight tremor in her breath.

The trust.

He swallowed. He had not realized how long it had been since someone had trusted him like that — without fear, without calculation, without knowing exactly what he was capable of. And he had not realized how much that might matter. A soft knock at the door interrupted his thoughts.

He straightened instantly. “Yes?”

Charlie stepped in, hesitant but curious. “You’re still awake.”

Tommy nodded once. “Go to bed.”

Charlie lingered a second longer, studying him with that unnerving perceptiveness he’d inherited from both parents. “She was happy today,” he said quietly.

Tommy did not ask who.

“I noticed.”

“So were you.” Charlie also added with a grin but his father only shot a glare, Charlie nodded, satisfied, and stepped back out, closing the door gently behind him.

The quiet returned.

Tommy exhaled slowly and sat down again, this time placing both palms flat against the desk.

He had survived war.

He had survived grief.

He had survived ambition.

He had not prepared for this.

For the subtle, persistent awareness of someone who did not fear him. Who laughed at him. Who stood too close and did not step back first.

He stared at his hands.

They had built empires.

And today, they had steadied a woman who looked at him like he might be something other than a weapon.

That thought was far more dangerous than any rival. He finally extinguished the lamp, But when he lay down that night, sleep did not come easily, Because every time he closed his eyes— He could feel her again. And that was new.