I feel like Joaquin would be a really great dancer both seriously and jokingly, he'd probably try to seduce you with it too and you'd just be standing there absolutely captivated (I would fr)
joaquín torres sooo would be a really great dancer; both seriously and jokingly.
he’d absolutely use it against you, trying to seduce you with smooth footwork and sharp spins while you just stand there in awe.
because the truth is, dancing is in his blood. he had no choice. he was that little kid who fell asleep on a plastic chair during family parties, arms crossed, only to be rudely awakened by his tías dragging him onto the dance floor. they’d squeeze his cheeks, laugh about how cute he was, and then pass him around from cousin to cousin, aunt to aunt, until he figured out how to move. he doesn’t even remember learning how to dance—it’s just something that’s always been part of him, as natural as breathing.
and he’s good at it. damn good.
joaquín takes you dancing all the time, always with that cocky little smirk that dares you to say no. it doesn’t matter that you’re not the best dancer in the world (some would say you have two left feet).
joaquín never minds. he holds onto your hips, pulls you close, and has you swaying against him with the fast-paced rhythm of the music, guiding you like it’s second nature.
one night, he takes you to a bar in miami. it’s packed—full of cumbia, huapango, salsa, la bamba—straw hats, beer, leather boots, so much denim. the energy is electric, the floor a blur of movement and heat. the music pulses through your chest, vibrating in your ribs, and before you can blink, joaquín’s pulling you onto the dance floor.
the first few buttons of his white shirt are undone, sweat glistening on his skin. at some point in the night, he’s found a cowboy hat that now sits low on his head, making him look unfairly good. he’s laughing, spinning you, dipping you like he’s showing off—and he is. because he can.
you’re trying so hard to keep up. your eyes stay locked on your feet, determined not to step on his, but the rhythm keeps picking up, faster and faster. you never thought of yourself as much of a dancer before you met joaquín. now, most of your weekends are spent on your feet, grinning so hard your face hurts.
“you’re thinking too much,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your ear as he pulls you close, his hips slotted with yours. “just feel it.”
his hands tighten on your waist, guiding you. and for once, you don’t think and you just move.