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﹒⸝⸝ ⧣₊˚ 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 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.

﹒⸝⸝ ⧣₊˚ 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.

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.