#leather face

Bo Sinclair

yeah, Bo would make you take your meds

"I already have to deal with running this whole town, don't make me run your medicine schedule."

I don't think he'd care much, but he gets pissy if you don't tell him when you are in need of a refill soon and wait til last minute so he has to go into town THAT DAY, he gets so mad about it

"Don't even try that 'I forgot' shit again,"

He just needs someone else sane around here

overall 7/10 he keeps you straight but lets you regulate yourself

Vincent Sinclair

Yes, and gets serious about it

He knows exactly how many refills you have, how many are in your bottles, how many milligrams, all of it

Only because he cares though

He will let you deal with it yourself, but he always makes sure to check at least once a day to see if you did

Whether it's shaking your bottle like a bag of cat treats or passing you a little note, he knows that it is important that you stay on them.

10/10 really nice about it, just wants you safe

Lester Sinclair

"If we gotta pay for 'em, you're takin' 'em"

I think that sums it up pretty well

5/10, never checks but gets upset about it

Bubba Sawyer

Not sure if he entirely understands

He would eventually come to the connection that days you take them are better than days that you do not,

If you explain it to him, he will definitely make sure to check in.

He would urge you to take them, but that's about it, it's more so just a thing in your busy lives.

3/10, you could get away with not taking them

Nubbins Sawyer

Let me hold your hand as I say this, he thinks that if you don't take them, you will die.

He just kind of has the connection that medicine = sickness, no matter how many times you try to explain it to him

He gets so scared

please don't do that to him

He will watch you take them please just take them sweetie

"Are you going to die-"

10/10 please he's shaking

Chop-Top Sawyer

He understands and does not give a shit whether you take them or not

He gets his own prescriptions from the VA hospital and Drayton keeps them locked up and regulated because he's convinced Chop would overdose or snort them,

not that Drayton cares, he just has too much going on.

"Shit, you don't wanna take 'em? Give 'em to me, I'll take 'em for ya, now we're both happy."

Don't do that

Drayton will know

1/10 will eat them like tic tacs for you

Drayton Sawyer

"Don't take 'em, I don't believe in that woke shit anyways."

Once he sees your doing worse though? He's singing a different tune

"Come on sugar, I'm already dealing with enough loonatics"

he didn't mean it that way I swear

He gets paranoid that you're gonna give them to Chop so he locks them up with his and you both go to him each morning and bat your eyelashes as he unlocks the cabinet and counts them out for you like an old man

8/10 you can't go wrong with it

Billy Lenz

Hell no

Bro doesn't even take his own medicine are you kidding?

He actively avoids his medicine, left them all at the facility

If you want to take them though, he could care less, but he also sort of urges you not to

he's a dick like that

Lowkey wants to get experimental with it

"h-how would B-Billy's p-piggy react if I m-mixed them with the others piggys pills?" meanwhile he's like drooling and shaking

hit him

don't let him poison you like that babe

I feel like though that he'd be a dick and when shaking Claude's treat bag he'd shake your bottle like they were treats

again hit him with a frying pan, you deserve better treatment then this

-5/10 I would lose my mind

Otis Driftwood

He doesn't believe in medicine unless he has a hangover or HE'S the sick one

Kind of like Drayton he wouldn't care if you didn't wanna take them unless you start causing him problems,

he wouldn't be as nice about it though

"You want me to shove them down your throat? Huh? That what you want? Didn't think so."

Just save yourself the trouble and take them

1/10 I would cry I think

Baby Firefly

Unpopular opinion, she'd get you to take them

I feel like if you're cool enough that she's noticing you not taking your meds? She cares about you. She's not just gonna let you ruin yourself

that's her job

"Hey sweetheart, got you this spoon of peanut butter, totally not anything suspicious."

sometimes you have to do what you have to do

She would trick you into it

"Well you ain't any fun if you're just... having a bad day."

7/10 her heart is in the right place

Billy Loomis and Stu Macher

They both would be pretty adamant about it

Billy gets all worried that this could somehow lead to them getting caught

Stu cares more about how it's affecting you

I feel like if they found out you weren't taking them, they'd have a sit down talk with you about it

Billy would make a schedule, he seems like a schedule guy

Stu would probably work in bribes or do what I like to do and chant "SHOT SHOT SHOT" with your chaser

10/10 pretty simple not much to write home about

RZ Michael Myers

he doesn't care

after all the different meds he was pumped with? He doesn't want that for you

he doesn't understand that they could help you

he 'loses' them for you

0/10 the worst, take your meds guys they aren't bad

Carrie White

she gets worried, poor thing

"If they weren't meant to help you, the doctors would not have given them to you."

will hold your hand through it

she doesn't really understand why you struggle with it, but she is supportive about it nonetheless

"medicine is here to help us :)"

11/10 I love her

Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham

you're in troubleeeee

Will freaks tf out

He just knows how beneficial medicine can be and this is very irrational to him

Hannibal being a literal psychiatrist isn't very pleased with you

he finds ways to like cook them into food or hide them

??/10 I didn't know really what to do with this one

Brahms Heelshire

He doesn't really understand why you're so against taking them

Isn't medicine here to help us?

He gets upset cause how are you supposed to take care of him if you're having a bad day?

8/10 picks up on it so fast

The Lost Boys

-he watches u when you bake. Every time.

-he likes the mess, and he likes the cleanup. He wants to help!!

-when he’s comfortable enough, he’ll point at the batter, silently asking to stir it.

-say yes because he lowk is really good at stirring. No lumps, and No expensive whip machine thingy needed (I do NOT bake twin I forgot what it’s called💔💔)

-surprisingly doesn’t make anything sexual out of it. A lot of people mischaracterize him as CONSTANT sex (IN MY OPINION🫩), but I feel like watching his partner do mundane things like baking calms him down.

-He’s the one asking you to bake stuff the second he finds out you have the ability.

-cake? Muffins? Cupcakes? He’s devouring them all, and then interrupting your cleanup to complain about his tummy ache.

-the mess stresses him out tho.

#needthat

-he just loves you so much. Like he just sees your hands working on dough and he just wants to squeeze you he loves you so so so so bad.

-comes up the second he smells it.

-he thinks it’s sweet when you and Luda may bake together.

-the mess also stresses him out

-if you’re clumsy and knock something over he’s literally gonna pick you up and sit you on the counter in stress.

-eats 90% of the fucking cake. Fatass.

-ESPECIALLY after a killing spree.

-he doesn’t really care tbh. U bake? Cool. Give him some. (All.)

-same as Michael.

-he will literally dislocate his jaw and eat it all in one bite for shits and giggles.

-Freddy Krueger found dead on elm street.

-likes coming home to a Cooked meal and dessert.

-he also likes waking up to find random stuff in the fridge that u cooked up

-he likes his bugs, and you like your baking. You respect each other.

Your first instinct had been fear. Then anger. Then something... else.

Curiosity.

Loneliness.

Empathy?

He never tried to break in. Never made a sound when you screamed into the dark. He left no messages, no harm. Only… gifts. A carved wooden figurine. A smooth stone polished clean and warm like it had been held for hours. A jar of honey, half-full, and sealed with old wax paper. You knew the stories—everyone in town had one—but none of them prepared you for this. For him.

He was always there. Quiet. Steady.

And, in a way, you realized… so were you.

It wasn’t until the first cold front blew in that you made him something.

Banana bread.

You’d always baked when anxious—an old coping habit. That day, your hands had shaken too badly to fold laundry, so you turned to flour and eggs instead. When it was done—crisp on the edges and soft in the middle—you stared at the loaf cooling on the rack and thought: Why not?

You cut a slice, wrapped it in wax paper, and walked outside at dusk.

“I know you’re there,” you said softly to the trees. “I don’t… I don’t want to be scared of you.”

You knelt and placed the bundle on a flat stone near the fence line, where you’d seen his shadow last.

“I made this for you.”

You didn’t expect a response.

But when you looked the next morning, the bread was gone.

That became a routine. Once a week, sometimes more. Cookies. Cornbread. Even a pie once, when you were feeling brave. Each time, you left a note. Never asking questions. Just… simple words.

"Hope you’re safe."

"This one’s still warm."

"You must get lonely out here too, huh?"

And, over time, the forest answered.

He left you things. A single crow feather, perfect and black. A rabbit's foot charm. Flowers—ugly and awkwardly bundled but picked with care. And one night, you found a folded page torn from a child's coloring book, colored in with shaky lines. Crayons. Red and yellow and blue.

It made your chest hurt.

Then came the night it rained.

You hadn’t meant to fall asleep on the couch, but when thunder cracked and woke you, the power was out. The house was pitch black—except for the back porch, where the lantern you’d forgotten to take inside flickered weakly against the storm.

And someone stood in its light.

You froze. Heart in your throat.

Thomas.

You’d only caught glimpses of him until now, but this was real. Raw. Massive and soaked, his leather mask glistening with rain. His hands clenched at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them. He looked—hesitant. Afraid.

Not of you.

Afraid he would scare you.

And for some reason… that broke something inside you.

Slowly, you reached for the door.

“Wait,” you whispered, voice trembling. “Don’t go.”

He flinched but didn’t move.

You stepped onto the porch, bare feet cold against the wood. The rain hit your face in soft drops, and still, he didn’t run. Just stood there, looming and silent, the very image of a nightmare.

But you didn’t scream.

You held out your hand.

“I… I saved some cornbread from earlier,” you said. “It’s probably cold now, but… do you want it?”

Thomas stood still as a statue.

Then, slowly, he nodded.

You never invited him in—not at first. You didn’t have to. He stayed close. Close enough to touch, but never did. He listened when you talked, even if you rambled. He crouched just out of view when you read aloud from your favorite books. Sometimes you’d hear soft huffs of breath, like laughter. Other times, he’d disappear into the night like a ghost. But when you left food, it was always gone the next morning. When you tripped over a root and scraped your knee one day near the woods, a few hours later you found a jar of some old antiseptic and a roll of gauze left neatly on your porch. He watched.

He cared.

In his own, twisted, silent way. You still didn’t know what to call this… thing between you. Friendship? Obsession? Something more? The fear hadn’t disappeared completely—it lurked in your ribs like a coiled spring. But so did something else. Something warm and strange and desperate.

He didn’t have anyone else. And maybe… neither did you.

So, the next time you left out cookies, you left a note too.

“If you ever want to sit with me… I won’t run.”

That night, you heard footsteps on the porch. He didn’t come in. But he sat there for hours. You heard him breathe. And somehow, you slept soundly for the first time in years... and slowly.. he came around but.

You hadn’t said anything at first.

Not when you hugged him one night and your eyes watered from the sour, meaty stink clinging to his clothes. Not when you buried your face in his shoulder and immediately regretted it. And definitely not when the flies started showing up—only a few, lazy and circling, but persistent.

You’d grown used to a lot about Thomas: his looming silence, his possessive hovering, his tendency to appear without warning and vanish like mist. But the smell? That was harder to overlook.

So, one evening, when the summer heat clung like syrup and the humidity made everything heavier, you took a chance.

He was sitting out back, on the rickety wooden bench under your porch light. His giant hands rested on his knees, still as stone. The mask made it hard to read his expression, but his shoulders slumped like a child being scolded.

“Thomas,” you said softly, stepping outside with a towel draped over your shoulder and a clean shirt in your arms. “I wanna show you something.”

He tilted his head, slow and unsure.

You offered a small smile. “It’s okay. I just… I wanna take care of you for a little while. Will you let me?”

A long pause.

Then, a slow, reluctant nod.

You guided him inside, to the small bathroom at the back of the house. It was old, like everything here—cracked tiles, foggy mirror—but it was clean. Warm. Safe.

The tub creaked under his weight as he sat, fully clothed, too big for the space. You let the water run, warm and gentle, steam fogging the edges of the mirror.

“You can keep the mask on,” you said quickly when you saw his hands twitch near his face. “I don’t need to see you. Just… let me do this.”

His hands stilled.

You knelt beside the tub and reached for the shampoo.

The moment the warm water hit his hair, he flinched.

But you hushed him gently. “Shhh. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

You worked slowly, fingers threading through thick tangles and caked dirt. The water turned a murky brown as you rinsed out layers of grime and old blood. His breathing was shallow at first—sharp little gasps through the mask—but as you continued, something shifted.

You felt it.

His shoulders eased. His neck went slack under your hands. And then…

A sound.

Low and rough, barely there—but unmistakable.

Purring.

Your fingers paused for a second in disbelief.

“Thomas,” you whispered with a tiny smile, “are you purring?”

He grunted softly, embarrassed, and tried to shift away.

You gently pulled him back. “No—no, it’s okay. I like it.”

And you did. God, you did.

You’d never seen him this soft. This still. He was always the looming shadow, the watchful thing in the trees. But here, in your bathtub, he was something else entirely—childlike, vulnerable. Human.

You hummed a little as you brushed through the last of his tangles, fingers slow and tender. His hair was much longer than you realized—wild, thick, and dark. You washed it twice, careful not to tug too hard. Each time the water rinsed clean, you caught another low rumble in his chest.

He sounded like a damn cat in the sun.

Afterward, you helped him out of the tub, handing him a towel and turning your back to give him privacy. When he emerged, still masked but wrapped in clean fabric, you handed him the fresh shirt—a soft, oversized one that smelled faintly of your laundry detergent and home.

“You clean up nice,” you teased, heart fluttering.

He didn’t respond, but you saw the way his head dipped slightly, like a shy animal not used to compliments.

You hesitated only briefly before stepping close, reaching up to touch his damp hair. “Can I…?” you asked softly.

He didn’t move.

You began brushing again—slow, gentle strokes. He made another low, content sound, swaying slightly toward your touch. You swear, if he had a tail, it’d be flicking lazily.

“I don’t know what they did to you,” you whispered. “Or what you’ve done. But I see you, Thomas. I see the parts they tried to break. And I’m not afraid.”

That made him stop. His entire body froze like a deer caught in headlights.

You touched your forehead to his chest. “Not of you.”

He didn’t purr this time. But his arms came around you—big, trembling things that barely knew how to hold something so delicate—and pulled you in like you were the first thing that had ever truly belonged to him.