#latinmen

Javier Escuella x dancer!reader

Guess who came back from the dead☺️ it’s been a while, but I’m finally back. Yesterday I woke up suddenly and remembered I have a tumblr account. Sorry about that, but I am so ready to write more fixe! And I even got my first request by a lovely anon, though it was requested like 3 months ago. Again, I am sorry! I proofread but if there’s any mistakes let me know!

I don’t allow people copying my work btw, anything of the sort will get reported.

Tags/warnings: MDNI, heavy angst, dark romance, obsessive behavior, possessive behavior, stalking elements, emotional manipulation, coercion, power imbalance, injury caused intentionally (he literally broke your leg), manipulation through caretaking, dependency, fear-based attachment, isolation, jealousy, toxic relationship dynamics, savior complex, “you’re safer with me” themes, loss of agency, psychological control, dubious consent themes, morally dark romance, psychological manipulation, injury recovery, broken leg, canon-era setting, slow-burn obsession, unhealthy devotion, protective behavior turned possessive, moral corruption, unreliable caretaker, twisted affection, hurt/comfort (heavy on hurt), dead dove: do NOT eat.

Javier Escuella had walked into plenty of saloons in his life. Most of them blurred together after a while—dim lantern light, the smell of whiskey soaked into the floorboards, card games stretching late into the night, men talking too loud about things that weren’t their business. That night should have been no different. He had come for some reason tied to the gang—maybe to listen for rumors, maybe to meet someone, maybe just to pass the time while Dutch handled something in town. Whatever the reason had been, it disappeared the moment the fiddle began to play and you stepped onto the small stage in the corner of the room.

You weren’t like the other women there, and Javier noticed that almost immediately. The working girls leaned over tables and laughed too loudly at men’s jokes, hands brushing shoulders while coins slipped from pockets into their palms. But you didn’t walk between tables, you never sat in their laps. Never whispered offers behind your fan. You simply danced.

And God, how you danced.

You stayed on the stage, under the lantern light, where everyone could see you but no one could touch. You were a dancer—nothing more, nothing less. And when the music started and your hips began to move with the slow rhythm of the fiddle, the entire room seemed to tilt toward you like a field of flowers turning toward the sun.

Javier sat down without even realizing he had done it. His drink sat untouched in front of him while he watched the way your skirt shifted with each step, the way your shoulders rolled with the beat of the music, the easy confidence in the way you moved. It wasn’t crude or desperate like some saloon shows he had seen before. There was something almost hypnotic about it, something that made the noise of the room fade away until all he could really hear was the music and the soft rhythm of your footsteps on the stage.

Men around him shouted things—some appreciative, some vulgar—but Javier didn’t join them. He never whistled, never called out. He just watched. His dark eyes followed every movement like he was trying to memorize the way you danced, the way your hair caught the light when you spun, the slight smile you wore like you knew exactly what the room thought of you and simply didn’t care. 

When the song ended, you stepped down from the stage and disappeared behind a curtain. Javier realized then that nearly an hour had passed.

Men came and went, but Javier stayed, elbows on the table, dark eyes following every turn of your body like a man studying scripture. He started coming back every week after that… then every few days. Eventually the bartender didn’t even ask what he wanted. Javier would sit in the same chair, hat tipped low, watching you sway under the lanternlight like you belonged there. Like you belonged to him.

He stayed.

When the band started playing again and you returned to the stage, he felt something strange settle in his chest—a quiet, stubborn feeling that he didn’t quite know how to name. By the time the saloon began emptying later that night, Javier was still sitting in the same chair, his hat tipped low, watching you dance like he had nowhere else to be.

After that night, he kept coming back.

At first, it was easy to pretend it was coincidence. The gang traveled often enough, and towns passed beneath their horses like drifting dust. But whenever they were within riding distance, Javier found himself drifting toward that same saloon, pushing through the same swinging doors, taking the same seat with the same clear view of the stage.

He never caused trouble. Never drank too much. Never touched you. But he watched. Night after night.

Sometimes he paid the band to keep playing longer. Sometimes he slipped the owner a few extra dollars just to make sure you came back out for another set. He would sit there for hours, elbows resting on the table, eyes locked on you while the rest of the world faded into nothing but background noise. And slowly, without him even realizing when it started, something inside him began to change.

At first it felt like admiration. Maybe even affection.

But admiration didn’t make his jaw tighten when other men leaned forward in their chairs to watch you. Admiration didn’t make his hands curl into fists when someone shouted something crude toward the stage.

Those men didn’t deserve to watch you. The ones who thought they were seeing the same thing Javier saw. They weren’t. They didn’t deserve the way your body moved with the music, or the way the lantern light followed the curve of your waist when you turned.

Some nights Javier forgot entirely why he had come into town. The gang would ask later if he’d heard any rumors or found anything useful, and he would realize he had spent the entire evening watching you dance instead of doing whatever Dutch had sent him to do.

Weeks passed like that.

You probably didn’t even notice him the first few times. Just another man with a hat tipped low, watching the stage.

But Javier noticed you noticing him eventually. He was hard to miss once you knew to look—always in the same place, quiet, still, his dark gaze following every step you took on the stage. His hat tipped low.

He just watched. He never shouted. Never grabbed. Never tried to drag you away like the others sometimes tried before the bouncers stepped in. He just watched.

And the strange thing was, he looked almost… reverent.

It took Javier a long time to gather the courage to speak to you. The idea itself made him uneasy, which was ridiculous considering the things he had done in his life. He had faced down guns, outrun lawmen, fought in battles he barely understood. Yet the thought of hearing you say no made his stomach twist in a way he couldn’t explain. But eventually, he tried anyway.

One evening after your last dance, he found you behind the saloon where the night air was cooler and the noise of the bar was muffled by the walls. Breathless from the dance, cheeks warm from the lamps. You were leaning against a wooden post, catching your breath after the last set, a damp cloth pressed against your neck. When you noticed him approaching, your expression shifted slightly—curious, cautious.

“Señorita,” Javier said softly, tipping his hat. You raised an eyebrow. He hesitated, the words feeling awkward on his tongue. “Perhaps… you would join me for dinner tomorrow.” You studied him for a moment. Not unkindly. Just thoughtfully.

Then you smiled, small and polite. “No.” Just like that. One simple word. You weren’t cruel about it. You didn’t laugh or mock him. You simply shook your head once, gently, like you were turning down an offer that had never really interested you to begin with. And then you walked back inside the saloon. A dancer protecting the thin boundary between stage and life.

Javier stood there for a long moment after you disappeared, staring at the door like he had been struck. The next night he came back anyway. And the night after that.

But now when you danced, something inside him had shifted. Before, he had watched you. Now he noticed everyone else watching you too—the greedy stares, the tossed coins, the drunken applause.

It made something dark coil in his chest.

Coins kept sliding across the counter. Eyes kept lingering where they shouldn’t. Something bitter and possessive took root inside him. If you wouldn’t dance for him… then you wouldn’t dance for anyone. You weren’t supposed to dance for them. You were supposed to dance for him. The thought grew stronger every time he came back. The green monster reared his ugly head at the thought of those men watching you dance.

Until eventually, he couldn’t stand it anymore.

The accident happened on a rainy night.

The street outside the saloon had turned to slick mud, lantern light reflecting off the wet ground. You were heading home after closing, your shawl pulled tight around your shoulders against the cold. Someone bumped into you from behind. Hard.

Your foot slipped on the mud before you could catch yourself. The fall was sudden and violent, pain shooting through your leg the moment you hit the ground. It was so sharp it stole the breath from your lungs before you could even cry out.

The man who had collided with you muttered a quick apology, barely stopping before disappearing into the darkness. You never saw his face. But whoever he was, he left you on the ground with a broken leg and no way to climb onto that stage again.

And you never once suspected the man standing across the street in the shadows. Time passed. Money dried up. Dancing wasn’t possible anymore, the doctor had said. The saloon hired another girl within a couple days. 

A week later, there was a knock at your door.

When you opened it, Javier Escuella stood there with a concerned look on his face, hat in his hands. “I heard what happened,” he said quietly. Your small rented room felt colder than usual with your injured leg stretched awkwardly across a chair. The doctor had wrapped it tight, but the dull ache still pulsed constantly through the bone.

“Yeah, news travel fast.” you said tiredly. “Bad luck, I guess.”

Javier stepped inside slowly, his eyes drifting across the cramped little room—the thin mattress, the peeling wallpaper, the small table with barely enough food for a day. “You cannot work like this,” he said gently. You let out a humorless laugh. “No. I cannot.”

For a moment neither of you spoke.

Then Javier pulled a chair closer and sat down in front of you, leaning forward slightly like he was sharing a quiet secret. “You should not worry about money anymore,” he said. You frowned. “What?”

“I can provide for you,” he continued, his voice calm and steady. “A proper home. Food. Comfort. You would not need that stage again.”

You stared at him, confused.

“Why would you do that?”

The question hung between you. Javier considered the truth.

Because I have watched you for months. Because the sound of your bracelets keeps me awake at night. Because every man who ever looked at you filled me with something ugly and burning. Because your now uneven gait has me on the floor and I don’t want to get up. 

But he didn’t say any of that.

Instead he said, “Because I care for you.” You hesitated. A dancer with a broken leg didn’t have many options in the world. Javier watched the thoughts move slowly across your face—the uncertainty, the exhaustion, the quiet fear of what came next. He already knew how this would end.

“Thanks, but I’ll manage.”

_________

You lasted three weeks. Three weeks of trying to walk without leaning on the walls. Three weeks of selling small pieces of jewelry to keep paying rent. Three weeks of listening to the music drifting from the saloon down the street while you sat by the window with your leg propped up.

On the twenty-third day, Javier knocked again. Three times, just to be safe.You opened the door slower this time.

And this time, when you looked at him, the pride in your eyes had cracks in it. You came back.” You stepped aside so he could enter.

Your room was smaller than he expected. A narrow bed, a chair, a cracked mirror on the wall. The air smelled faintly of liniment and cheap soap. Your leg was worse today. You were leaning heavily on a cane. Javier’s jaw tightened slightly when he saw it. He watched you lower yourself carefully into the chair. Rent collectors don’t care about doctors orders, you had said. It took convincing, he rehearsed excuses on why you should live with him. Why he should care for you.

When you finally nodded, slow and unsure, relief flickered through his expression. A quiet life. Someone to take care of you now that the world had been so cruel. You were grateful. You called him your savior. Javier only smiled when you said that. Because in his mind, he had simply fixed a terrible problem. Now you didn’t dance for strangers. Now you belonged somewhere safe. With him.

From that day forward, he took care of everything. Food appeared regularly. Rent was paid before you even had to ask. He spent hours sitting beside you while your leg healed, sometimes humming old Mexican songs while he cooked small meals in the cramped kitchen. And sometimes, late at night, when your injured leg ached and you leaned against him for support, Javier would press a kiss to your hair and murmur something soft in Spanish.  And whenever anyone asked about you, he always introduced you the same way:

“Mi esposa.”

👑

Keep Calm