Im-po-si-ble
⋆˚࿔ 𝜗𝜚˚⋆ ────𝜗𝜚────⋆˚࿔ 𝜗𝜚˚⋆
(Simon Riley x Hispanic! Reader)
there will be Spanish in this blurb! So I will put translations in purple
“¡Simon, ¿cuántas veces te he dicho que no toques la comida cuando estoy cocinando?!” (Simon, how many times have I told you not to touch the food when I’m cooking?!)
You spun around, wooden spoon still in hand, hip cocked to the side, a glitter of flour on your cheek and a furious sparkle in your eyes.
Simon stood frozen like a deer in headlights, a spoonful of picadillo halfway to his mouth. “…I was just tasting love” he muttered with a sheepish shrug, the spoon clinking softly as he set it back.
You crossed the kitchen in three quick steps, eyes narrowed, the scent of cumin and garlic wafting off you like perfume. “You are always just tasting. Every. Single. Time. Do you see me putting my hands on your stuff? No, ¿verdad?” (Right?)
“I mean, you have—” he started with a sly smile.
“¡No me importa!” (I don’t care!) you snapped, smacking his arm with the back of the spoon. “You’re gonna burn your tongue one of these days, cabezón.” (Big head.)
Simon grinned wider. He didn’t understand half of what you said most of the time, especially when you got riled up and the Spanish started pouring out like water from a busted pipe—but he loved it. He loved you, all animated, passionate, your long hair bouncing around your shoulders as you stomped around the kitchen in fuzzy slippers and booty shorts.
“I love it when you yell at me,” he said, ducking another playful swat.
“¡Ay, Dios mío!” you groaned, turning back to the stove with a dramatic flip of your hair. “You are impossible. Im-po-si-ble, Simon.” ( Im-po-ssi-ble, Simon.)
He came up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you against his chest. “Say it again,” he murmured, voice low and teasing near your ear. “Impossible. But say it like you do.”
You sighed, but leaned into him anyway. “Imposible, pendejo.” (Impossible, stupid.)
“Yeah,” he breathed. “That.”
You let yourself melt for just a second, then pushed him back gently with your elbow. “Go set the table before I put this hot picadillo in your face.”
He laughed and obeyed, mumbling, “Yes, ma’am,” as he grabbed the plates. You picked up your phone and hit speed dial.
“Mamá—sí, estoy cocinando. No, no nos vamos a casar todavía, pero ay, mamá, yo me vuelve loca por la culpa de este hombre …pero ya sabes lo amo” (Mom—yes, I'm cooking. No, we're not getting married yet, but oh, Mom, I'm going crazy because of this man…but you know I love him.) Simon tilted his head, catching his name now and then but none of the context. He loved the way you talked with your mom—your tone soft and quick, affectionate, but full of gossip and sass.
When you hung up, he was already at the table, watching you wipe down the counter you had just cleaned.
“Didn’t you already clean that?” he asked.
“Yes. But now it’s cleaner. Don’t question me.”
He raised both brows, amused. “You stress cleaning again, love?”
You paused, then side-eyed him. “Maybe. Y qué?” (And what?)
“You need to relax. Come here,” he said, holding out his arms.
You hesitated, then padded over and plopped onto his lap. He immediately pulled you in close, letting your hair fall over both of your shoulders. “You’ve got flour on your cheek,” he murmured, brushing it off gently with his thumb.
“You always say that,” you mumbled, curling into him.
“Because you always do.” He pressed a kiss to your temple. “So… how do I say that word again? ‘Impossible’?”
“Imposible.” (Impossible)
“Eeempo-seeee-blay.”
You snorted. “No, no, im-po-si-ble. Con más pasión. Say it like you mean it!” (Im-po-ssi-ble. With more passion.)
He tried again, horribly. You cackled, tossing your head back.
“Oh no,” you said dramatically. “You’ll never survive meeting my tíos if you can’t say imposible right.”
“Then I better keep practicing,” he said, and before you could respond, he kissed you hard, shutting you up with a smile.
Your face was flushed when he pulled back. “That’s cheating.”
“All’s fair in love and Spanish,” he whispered.
