ooohhh ok hear me out…what abt joaquin and reader at like a arcade or fair and they make a bet on how many tickets/prizes they can win. just fluff galore yknow!!
(ps this is tea—tumblr won’t let me ask on my other acct.😭😭)
— Ringpops and Clawmachines
pairing - Joaqín Torres x fem gf!reader
summary — Joaquin and gf!reader go on an arcade date. Maybe J lets her win, or maybe reader is just better at him (its the latter)
warnings - pure fluff!!!, established relationship,
notes — i forgot i had this in my drafts so im finally posting lolll!!! here you go tea :) hope this is what you wanted bb <3
masterlist
You barely stepped one foot onto the fairgrounds before Joaquín was tugging your hand, eyes sparkling like he was a kid again.
“Arcade first,” he said with mock urgency. “Before the cotton candy coma sets in.”
You laughed, fingers laced tightly with his. “Are you trying to distract me before I destroy you in ticket count again?”
“Destroy me?” he gasped. “Mi amor, you got lucky last time.”
“Lucky? I outscored you in Skee-Ball and beat your sorry butt at air hockey.”
“That was a technical glitch,” he muttered. “The puck had a vendetta.”
You leaned up to kiss his cheek. “Excuses, Torres. Just admit your defeat like a good boyfriend.”
He made a dramatic show of being wounded before shoving a game card into your hand. “Fine. Rematch. Same deal. Winner gets bragging rights and gets to pick the prize we take home.”
You squinted at him. “Loser buys snacks?”
“Obviously.”
You bumped shoulders. “Hope you brought your wallet, flyboy.”
The arcade glowed with neon lights, the air full of the beeps, buzzes, and explosions of pixelated warfare. You and Joaquín hit every game like a mission: Skee-Ball, Whack-a-Mole, hoops, racing sims. He tried to look all serious and tactical, squinting like he was on an actual op—but every time you glanced over, he was grinning.
He absolutely flopped at the claw machine. Again.
“Why is it always this one?” he asked, staring at the stuffed banana plushie that had slipped from the claw’s grip at the last second. “I had it.”
You giggled. “It knew you weren’t ready for the responsibility of banana parenthood.”
He snorted, bumping your hip with his. “One more try.”
He failed. Again.
“Babe, I think the claw hates me.”
“It’s okay,” you teased, wrapping your arms around his waist. “I love you enough for both of us.”
He melted right there, smile softening as he kissed your forehead. “That’s not fair. You can’t say cute things in the middle of my emotional downfall.”
At the basketball hoops, he bounced back. Literally.
He landed every shot with precision, flexing like a goof and mouthing, “Get on my level,” while you booed dramatically and tried to sabotage him with a tickle to the ribs.
At Dance Dance Revolution, it was chaos.
He was all limbs, bouncing to the beat like a man possessed, while you tried to keep up through gasps of laughter. The machine awarded you a “C” and him a “D,” which sparked a very loud (and extremely incorrect) debate about the scoring algorithm.
“Clearly rigged,” he said, hands on his hips.
“You fell off the pad twice.”
“I was giving the crowd a show!”
“No one was watching except that four-year-old eating popcorn.”
“He was watching respectfully.”
Eventually, you both collapsed onto a bench near the prize booth, game cards drained, ticket stacks stuffed in your pockets, sleeves, and your tote bag.
Joaquín slumped beside you, leaning his head against your shoulder.
“Okay,” he murmured. “Tally time. You ready to admit defeat?”
You pulled out your ticket pile and laid it on your lap. “Count 'em, Torres.”
He stared. Then groaned. “Nooo.”
You grinned. “What’s the damage?”
He held up his smaller pile, dramatically tossing a few on the ground. “By like sixty! This is sabotage.”
“You picked the Dance Dance game.”
“And you picked my heart,” he sighed, collapsing sideways across your lap.
You laughed, brushing a hand through his hair. “Nice try, but that’s not getting you out of funnel cake duty.”
“Worth a shot,” he mumbled, turning just enough to kiss your stomach lightly before sitting up again. “Alright, what prize do we want, champ?”
You both ended up choosing a pair of matching plush dogs and some candy rings for the walk home. He made a whole thing out of fake-proposing to you with a ring pop in front of the booth attendant, who gave you both a slow clap and a sarcastic “congrats.”
“Next time, real ring,” Joaquín whispered to you as you walked away, slinging his arm over your shoulders. His voice was soft now, warmer than the summer breeze around you.
Your heart did a whole somersault, but all you said was, “Only if it comes with more cotton candy.”
“Done.”
