#latine!reader

Robert Neville - Protection and tenderness; but the way Robert lost everything when the world ended has left its clear mark. A wound never healed. Only ignored, because to acknowledge the weight of everything stolen from him would be too great a risk. He can’t save what’s left of the world if he’s having a psychotic break brought on by grief. And it’s playing with something far more dangerous than fire to fall in love again when monsters still lurk in the dark. Greedy instruments in the utter destruction of humanity. Sometimes the grief, the fear, makes him unreasonable; he knows.

If his paranoia were unfounded, he could get control of himself. But it isn’t. The world is dangerous, and it makes Robert's hackles rise when you step outside the safety of his perfectly reinforced home into the messy, uncontrolled chaos of this city he used to love, ravaged by a violent virus and the vicious passage of time. He thinks about putting his foot down one day and telling you there won’t be anymore trips outside. Thinks of reaching for the countenance of the gentler man he used to be as he breaks that news. Softening the blow by saying all the things he’s avoided till now—like ‘I love you’ and ‘I can’t risk losing you’—instead of what’s most likely to come tumbling out, the scientist masquerading as drill sergeant, shouting ‘This is not up for debate’. He could withstand your hate if it meant ensuring one person he loved survived.

Homelander - Things get scary fast. The animalistic part of the brain that flashes neon red danger signs in the minds of other people must be broken in you. It isn’t entirely your fault, though. Homelander put on such a show for you. Prince charming. Considerate, of the sudden fame and the weight of so many people’s expectations. Romantic, almost boyish, as he presented you with bouquets of roses so perfect they seemed plucked from a movie. Came to meetings with you and didn’t allow you to be talked over or bullied into choices you weren’t comfortable with. He put all his acting prowess into the role of the century… being your hero.

And all the little worms and ingrates hovering at the edges of your world who watched you fall into the trap with pity didn’t dare open their mouths to warn you. It wasn’t worth their lives—especially because it wouldn’t even save you. No one could save you. Not from him.

His affection is a cage. He just doesn’t put you in one.

Maybe there’s a noble reason behind that, some actual modicum of love. An inability to put you through something that damaged him down to the foundations of his personhood. Or maybe he just knows he doesn’t need to.

He can hear your heartbeat from two cities away. Can fly halfway across the world in the time it takes most people to sneeze and wipe their nose. Vought would do anything to keep him pacified, and you’re the only thing that’s come close to keeping him calm since Stillwell. If you ran, Homelander wouldn’t even have to drag you back himself. He could send the rest of the Seven after you. It might just be wave after wave of Vought goons, until you give in and trudge home, a kicked dog ready to submit. And then would come the worst part: facing Homelander’s rage at being abandoned. The cage is better. You don’t know what’s waiting for you on the other side of it.

Qimir - His love is obsession. Qimir can’t let you go. You’re the other half of him. The bond between you is a vibrant thing, bursting with enough energy that it might as well be a star sitting atop your chest, crushing you with its gravity. You run from him. You have to. It’s the right thing to do. You used to fear the heat of his lightsaber at your throat. The overwhelming thrall of the darkest side of the Force whenever he grew closer. Now when you run, you’re terrified that you will look over your shoulder and find no one in pursuit.

You worry for nothing.

He finds you faster than ever, as if he can read your mind even across the light-years of distance you put between the two of you. Qimir’s hand on your throat, a lover’s caress instead of a captor’s rage. He used to be so angry, catching you back at the beginning, knowing it wouldn’t be long before you’d slip away again. His dark, bottomless eyes are different now. There is something soft in them. You avert your gaze. You are both going through a terrible metamorphosis. “One day, you’ll grow tired of this dance, little spark. And when you do, I’ll be right there, waiting.”

Clark Kent - The most profound act of love that Clark can offer you is his gentleness. It’s the same gift he offers the world. He doesn’t make empty promises, and the moment you slipped your hand into his and told him you loved him, he made several. I will never hurt you. I will always be there when you need me most. I won’t let anything or anyone hurt you, not even me. He didn’t speak the words out loud, afraid to scare you away with the depth of all that he feels for you. But he made the vows to himself, and he wakes up every morning thinking of how he’ll honor them.

There are times Clark’s head gets too loud, telling him just how fragile you are. Reminding him how many people want to hurt him but can’t, and would happily hurt you in his place. He comes to you when the thoughts become overwhelming (whispering dark suggestions of how you’d be safer, better off, in the fortress of solitude, and wouldn’t being safe make you happy…eventually). Clark doesn’t tell you everything, not wanting to scare you, but he tells you enough. And beautiful soul that you are, you throw your arms around him and tell him it’s natural to be scared when you have something to lose, but that there’s no one safer on the planet than you. Because he doesn’t love anyone like he loves you. Your absolute conviction quiets all that dark, worried noise in his head. At least for a little while.

Jim (28 Days Later) - He becomes a survivor for you. He learns how to scavenge for you. How to hunt for you. Kill for you. There’s nothing he wouldn’t do to keep you alive. You’re the only thing that matters anymore. Jim wishes he were some sort of brilliant scientist who could find a cure for the virus; or a pilot who could commandeer some miraculously abandoned plane and fly you to a distant part of the world that doesn’t smell like death and violence lying in hungry wait. But he isn’t any of those things. He’s just a regular bloke who survived by dumb luck until he ran into you, and then he was surviving by the grace of your kindness and inability to turn your back on someone who needed you. Even if that someone was a horrible liability in the beginning. He’s better now. Better at fighting. At knowing when it’s time to grab your hand and run for the hills. Better at getting worms onto hooks so he can bring back fish for dinner instead of having to risk the dangers of the city for recently expired cans of food. Whenever he falters, or wonders if he can stomach one more day of a future like this, he looks over at you and thinks—Anything. For them, I’ll do anything.

A/N: please enjoy last month's voted on prompt!! it was so exciting to see the voting happen, even if we had to do it twice, adjkl. i absolutely love how many characters are in the husbands gang. they've got the richest variety of any of the groups. there's always someone i feel like writing for. this is also my first attempt at soft yandere Clark!

if you enjoyed this story consider reblogging, leaving a reply, or an anon! a writer’s fuel is engagement. if you really loved this, check out my PATREON: slasherscream, for some exclusive content. this particular story was posted three weeks ago on the patreon, for early access. xoxoxo

You throw the car into park and glance up at your rearview mirror. The three white boys smushed into the backseat push at each other to try to take a look through the window, grunts and mumbles escaping them. Kyle chuckles from the passenger seat, watching the commotion unfold.

“Are we sure this was a good idea?” you turn to Kyle, “We could have brought it back to the house for them.”

“No saben igual después de tanto tiempo, y tu bien lo sabes, tesoro,” Kyle responds, an impish smile on his face.

With a groan, you close your eyes and throw your head against the headrest. It’s the first time yall are back in your hometown for more than a week, and with all the extra time to yourselves, the plan was to eat as much good food as possible. One of your tías told you about this place, where they serve al pastor straight from the trompo, each slice almost caramelized to a delicious crunch. They’ve got the pineapple sitting on top, too. She said it was the best quality she’s seen in town to date. Even her husband won’t stop talking about it. And now here you all are, parked against the curb with the air on full blast.

Every time you’ve gone to a mom and pop shop like this, it’s been you and Kyle stepping in first. You go in with kindness and chatter, and the older ladies always helplessly swoon over Kyle. Laughter bubbles and you both eat happily, and sometimes the ladies sneak extras onto your plates. It’s a sacred time full of loud smooches, the staff going “UUUUU’ all around you, a deep blush on Kyle’s face as you wipe at the corner of his mouth with a napkin, his radiant smile set to make your heart burst. It’s perfect. It’s home.

Once you’ve scoped out a place with your own private date, then you bring your white boys over. At that point, you’ve already tried the place, showered Kyle in kisses, and built rapport with the staff. So by the time they step in, the sun drawing eyes to their paleness, the staff won’t try to upcharge you. It’s a genius pull, honestly, one you’ve done yourself with tremendous success. The white folks always have more than enough money to spare, and since they usually don’t know the prices, well that’s on them. But as you sit here in the car, listening to them point out all the little details of the shop to each other, you can’t help but wish you’d left them at home.

Kyle notices the disappointment on your face as you pick at your fingers. Try as you might to keep your face neutral, your expressions are always so easy for him to read. This is the first time your private outings have been interrupted, all because the shop is just a bit too far from the house for the tacos to travel well and your cousin had to fucking say so. He reaches for your hand, bringing it to his mouth for a kiss, waiting for you to make eye contact with him. There’s a distinct sadness in his eyes, a bittersweetness that’s never appeared on these outings before.

“Next time?” a little bit of hope cracks through his voice.

“Next time,” you swear, noticeably glum.

A thought freezes you before you can undo your belt. You reach for Kyle’s hand again, silly grin on your face, and turn around towards the other boys.

“How do you ask for the price of something?’ you ask them.

Kyle holds back his laughter at the question, squeezing your fingers with excitement. There’s joy on his face again and that’s all it takes for you to know you made the right call.

¿Cuánto cuesta?” they all say as one.

“No,” you say, your splitting with a grin, and Kyle can’t hold in his laugh. “Sorry boys, you’re staying here. Kyle and I will be right back.”

They don’t have the chance to protest or question before you’re bolting out of the car, coming around to open Kyle’s door and pull him from his seat. He lets out another loud laugh, the crinkles around his eyes sending warmth blooming in your chest. You’re both still giggling, if a little out of breath from sprinting inside, when one of the staff steps up to greet you, an older woman who's clearly enjoying the life you’re bringing into the place.

“Hola, mis niños. ¿Es su primera vez aquí? No me acuerdo haberlos visto antes, y a esas caritas las recordaría.”

“Primera vez. Un primo nos dijo de este lugar. Y nomas al verlo, se ve rebueno,” Kyle says, bringing you in closer as you wrap your arm around his waist.

“Una cita con el novio,” you tell her. It’s hard to keep a smile off your face with your sudden success, and it seems to catch in the staff member as well.

As she goes off to put in your order, Kyle helps you pack up some salsa, holding the small containers for you to scoop the goods into. You’re trying to figure out just how many containers you can fit into your hands, Kyle reminding you that you’ll need more guacamole than any salsa, when she returns with a big bag full of much smaller plastic bags of guacamole for you. Before you can even thank her, she’s handing each of you a plate with two smaller tacos, winking at you.

“Si quieren, pueden esperar ahí,” she points towards the door with her eyebrows, where there’s a couple of swings.

Walking over, you eye them a little nervously, worried about the structural integrity. The last thing you need is for it to give out on you, regardless of how nice it might be to reminisce in the seat.

“They’re welded,” Kyle whispers in your ear, “They’re solid.”

Sweet tears brim your lashes as you pull him down to cover his cheek in quick kisses. You can feel his shoulders shake with quiet mirth as he stays in place, accepting as much love as you’re willing to give him. If it were up to him, he’d never move from the spot, not even if his back starts aching or if hunger pangs strike. He’d stay pressed to you until something or someone forced him away. So for now he takes what he can.

“We should eat these before they get cold,” the false concern in your voice clear as you gently rock in the swing.

“Definitely. Wasting them would be disrespectful,” his voice low, pulling at the chain of your swing to bring you close together.

The first bite has you turning to look at each other with wide eyes, a pleasant shock bouncing between you. Words can’t do it justice. Your tía’s husband hyped these tacos up so much that you were a little worried about being disappointed. Turns out he didn’t talk about them enough. All either of you can do is let out groans as you chow down silently, Kyle’s strong arm keeping your swings connected.

“Hijo de su pinche putisima madre,” you say, gulping for breath around the sheer ecstasy of the food.

“Que chingandos fue eso?” he says, soft eyes searching yours as if you have the answer. They say food is sex, but the closest he’s ever come to feeling like this has been with you. What the fuck did they put in this. He leans back to face the woman behind the counter, “Seño, nos puede dar otras dos órdenes más porfa?”

“Ya te las puse, precioso,” she says, stepping towards him with a bulging bag in her hand, “Sabía que iban a necesitar más. El amor hace que te dé más hambre.” Before either of you can get up, she’s shoving another two little tacos into your hands, pressing a finger to her smiling lips.

You take slower bites this time, smiling at each other with cheeks bulging full of food. Now that you know what you’re in for, you’re going to savor every piece. Swings still connected, you nudge Kyle’s foot with the toe of your shoe, pressing your knee more firmly against his. He looks so at peace, his shoulders slightly scrunched as he carefully brings the food to his mouth, his nose crinkled up with delight at each bite he takes. You have the brief thought that maybe you should take a picture of this moment, but you can’t bear to tear your eyes from him. And when he turns, those big brown eyes locked on you, you’re sure you’ll never blink again.

“¿Que piensas, mi vida?” he caught your stare.

“Que te adoro,” you speak the words into his skin, kissing the arm holding your swings together.

“En aceite?”

“Clarín.”

Kyle quickly scans the room, just enough to make sure no one is looking your way, before bending and planting a tender kiss on your lips. His lips taste faintly of salt and fat, just as yours surely do, and you wish you could deepen the kiss, wanting more of the delectable combination. But he pulls away before you can, hunger for you burning in his eyes.

His voice is rough when he speaks again, tongue peeking out in search of the lingering taste of you, “We should get back to them.”

“When we get home?” your voice so breathless you barely recognize it as your own.

Kyle nods and stands, holding the bag of food in front of him, trying to discreetly adjust his pants. You’re both giggling again as he reaches for you, gently helping you up from the swing. Smiles are still stuck in place when you reach the car, slipping into your seats without saying another word.

You pause for a moment, waiting for some kind of commentary from the backseat. Now that you’re back in the car, you can look over and see that the swings are in clear sight of the car. A glance up at the rearview mirror shows you three grinning faces, each one more knowing than the next. They could dog you, tease you, joke about the scene they surely saw. But they don’t. Instead, Simon’s tummy breaks the silence, a loud rumble echoing through the car.

The entire car bursts into peals of laughter, the racket interrupted only long enough to deal out plates and servings. Kyle was right about the guacamole, as the boys pour entire little baggies of it on their tacos. Can’t blame them, honestly. That shit is creamy. And then a corus of moans breaks out in the backseat, first bites hitting hard enough to make the most stoic of them break into delight. You look over at Klye, find him already looking at you, and you both nod enthusiastically, biting into your food.

“We’re coming back,” he says, and then lower, “Just us next time.”