#satanic doo-wop | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cami040405 · 2 months ago

Note

Since you have officially become my like, number one slasher writer for my manzs Michael and Bo:

Could you pretty pls do Michael, Bo, and whoever you would like to write for with a fem!s/o that looks and acts like a ‘sweetheart’ in a (non republican lol) 50’s housewife type of way but cusses constantlyyy if that makes sense? Like, think Bree from Desperate Housewives with Gordon Ramsay’s profanity, so really sweet but just aggressive about it (I’m sorry if it doesn’t really make sense and feel free to not do it :))

Michael Myers, Bo Sinclair & Charles Lee Ray with a S/O who's a Sweetheart but Swears a Lot

Summary: Imagine Michael Myers, Bo Sinclair & Charles Lee Ray with a S/O who’s very cute and a sweetheart, but has an explosive temper and swears a lot.

A/N: As always your ideas are great, sorry for the delay in responding to requests, this week has been crazy, thank you for always sending requests, I'm always happy to write them.

Michael Myers

“Oh sugar, could you hand me that fuckin’ chainsaw?”

You were a contradiction wrapped in satin gloves.

The first time Michael saw you, you were standing outside your little retro house at the end of a quiet suburban street. The morning sun hit your lemon-yellow dress like a halo, and your lipstick was cherry red — perfect, untouched. You were watering your garden, hips swaying to some old doo-wop song playing faintly from a vintage radio inside.

You looked like you belonged on the front of a Betty Crocker box.

Until you dropped the hose, stepped in the mud, and muttered loud enough for God and the birds to hear:

“Goddamn motherfucker, not these heels again, Christ on a fuckin’ cracker—”

And then, sweet as pie, you looked up and waved at your neighbor with a sunny:

“Good morning, Mr. Owens! Hope your prostate’s treatin’ ya better today!”

Michael stood there in the bushes, frozen. Not stalking you — yet — just... watching. Bewildered. You were both doll-like and chaotic. Sugar-laced thunder.

He kept watching. Days turned into weeks. You vacuumed in heels. You baked cupcakes with little fondant pumpkins on top and left them on porches. You told the paperboy to “be careful on that shitty-ass bike or I’ll be scraping your spleen off the sidewalk,” with the voice of a lullaby. He was obsessed.

You didn’t even flinch the first time you saw him up close.

You came home from grocery shopping to find a six-foot-tall man in a boiler suit and mask standing in your hallway. Most people would scream. You? You just exhaled like you were annoyed and dropped your bag of produce.

“Jesus tapdancin’ Christ, you scared the goddamn soul outta me. You one of them freaks from next door? If you’re gonna kill me, do it fast, I’ve got a roast in the oven and it’ll burn to hell if I don’t baste it in the next twenty minutes.”

He didn’t kill you.

You made him dinner instead.

From that point on, you just… accepted him.

You’d hum old love songs in the kitchen, apron tied tight around your waist, pearl necklace shining against your throat, muttering about the broken mixer like:

“Piece of shit sounds like it’s possessed by a meth head raccoon…”

And Michael? He just loomed in the doorway, silent as a shadow, following the scent of cinnamon and soap and that one perfume you always wore — something old-fashioned and soft. You never demanded anything from him. You didn’t cry, you didn’t run, you didn’t try to “fix” him.

But you did talk to him constantly.

“I made your favorite today, sugar. Meatloaf and mashed potatoes. The potatoes are fluffier than Satan’s ass cheeks, swear to God.”

“I put some more knives in the drawer for you. Good ones. Japanese steel, sharp as hell. Don’t say I don’t treat you right, you giant homicidal marshmallow.”

“If that little bitch Laurie peeks over my hedge one more time, I’m gonna march my ass over there and shove my spatula up her perky little nose.”

Michael never responded. But he stayed. That was his answer.

You weren’t scared of the mask. You even joked about it.

One day you got up in his face while adjusting his collar and whispered,

“You ever wanna try a pastel pink one, baby? I could match it to my oven mitts.”

And then you cackled like it was the funniest thing in the world while he just… stared.

And yet, somehow, your softness reached him. The way you’d gently rub circles on his hand when he sat at the kitchen table. The way you left him little notes like

“Gone to the market. Don’t kill anyone in the living room. ”

You swore like a sailor, but loved like the 1950s housewife you dressed as. Tender, thoughtful, present.

You patched up his wounds without hesitation, gently dabbing antiseptic and muttering,

“Jesus Christ, who put a fuckin’ meat hook through your shoulder? I’m gonna find that bastard and slap ‘em so hard they piss alphabet soup.”

Your touch was gentle even when your words were vicious.

The day he killed someone for you, it was the neighbor who kicked your cat.

You weren’t mad. You just sighed and kissed his jaw, eyes bright with a kind of knowing warmth as you said,

“Aw, baby… you didn’t have to. But hell, that guy was a dick. You want lemon bars?”

And he nodded.

In the end, you became the calm in his storm — even if you swore like the thunder itself. Michael never needed words, and you didn’t need answers. You just needed someone who let you be exactly who you were:

A loving, doting, cupcake-baking, vintage-dressed, profanity-flinging badass with a heart of absolute gold.

And he needed someone who didn’t flinch when he got blood on the floor — someone who just sighed and muttered,

“That better not fuckin’ stain. I just mopped.”

Bo Sinclair

When Bo Sinclair first laid eyes on you, he thought he was hallucinating.

You were standing outside your charming little home just outside Ambrose — watering the flowerbeds, your pastel yellow sundress cinched at the waist, matching heels digging into the gravel as you shifted your weight. A vintage kerchief held back your curls, and a string of pearls hugged your neck. A picture-perfect 1950s vision — you even had a cherry pie cooling in the window.

He was halfway through imagining how to flirt with you when you turned, looked him dead in the eye, and called:

“You just gonna stand there like a goddamn creeper or you got somethin' to say, sugar?”

His jaw damn near hit the dirt.

You smiled so sweetly it gave him cavities. The kind of smile that made men forget what day it was. But the voice? You had a tone like a shotgun — all honey and gravel.

Bo didn’t know whether he wanted to date you or put you on a leash.

Bo, being a man of his own… colorful vocabulary, finds your style hilarious and magnetic.

You’ll bake him biscuits, hummin’ along to old vinyls in the kitchen, your frilly apron hugging your curves — and then you burn the second batch and shout:

“MotherFUCKER, I knew I set that damn oven too high, son of a BITCH!”

Bo leans in the doorway and just watches you — beer in hand, shit-eating grin on his face.

“You kiss me with that mouth, darlin’?”

“Damn right I do, sugarplum. You love this fuckin’ mouth.”

He does.

He likes to walk into rooms just to hear what’ll come out of your mouth next. It’s like a sport to him — poke the bear and see what kind of filthy poetry you’ll spit.

You’ll talk about needing to clean the curtains and insult Lester’s entire lineage in the same breath. You’ll lovingly rub Bo’s shoulders while telling him he’s your “big, sexy bastard,” then flip off a tourist from the porch with a fresh batch of lemonade in hand.

You don’t let Bo get away with being a temperamental shit. And that’s what really draws him to you — you challenge him, but in that sexy, playful, Southern-goth way.

“Bo, if you slam that fuckin’ door again, I swear on my mama’s ashes I’ll superglue your dick to a car battery.”

“You gonna wear that sleeveless shit in front of company, darlin’? Or are you tryin’ to start rumors?”

“Boy, I love you more than pie, but if you touch my ironing again, I will throw hands.”

Bo isn’t used to that. He’s used to people being scared of him, tiptoeing around his moods. You? You threaten to shove a wrench up his ass and then kiss his cheek and ask if he wants sweet tea or whiskey.

And what’s worse? It works. He actually listens to you. (Sometimes.)

You're fiercely loyal, despite your loud-ass mouth. If anyone — anyone — says anything sideways about Bo, they’re gonna have a whole lot more than tooth decay to worry about.

You’ve absolutely cornered some poor soul before like:

“Say one more fuckin’ word about my man’s scars and I swear to God I’ll take that spork and carve my name into your eyeball.”

Bo just stands there, arms crossed, biting back a proud smirk while you defend him like a rabid chihuahua in heels.

You're not just sass — you're his protector in your own unhinged, mother-hen way. You patch him up after fights, rub his shoulders when he’s tense, and kiss his jaw like it’s sacred. You tell him he’s handsome even when he’s covered in motor oil or blood.

“You look good, baby. All sweaty like that. Like a filthy mechanic Calvin Klein ad.”

“You need Jesus, sweetheart.”

“What I need is you to bend me over the fuckin’ sink after dinner.”

He chokes on his beer often thanks to you.

Living in Ambrose with you is chaos in pearls.

You clean up the Sinclair house — which Bo doesn’t even realize is possible — in floral gloves and heels, all while calling the dead bodies “inconvenient little fuckers” and the flies “Satan’s tiny bastards.”

You paint the walls pastel and cuss out the wiring.

You host a tea party for yourself, Bo, and Vincent once — complete with scones and the most aggressive table manners known to man:

“Vincent, sweetheart, pass the cream — and Bo, if you scratch your balls at the fuckin’ table again I will knife you in your sleep.”

Bo’s never laughed harder. Vincent hasn’t stopped blinking.

Bo never knew he needed a woman like you — sweet enough to charm anyone, but savage enough to start a war. You keep him grounded, even when you're threatening to “gut-punch God himself if the washing machine breaks again.” He thinks you’re the hottest thing in heels, and no one — no one — gets to talk shit about you without losing a tooth or two.

Bo loves you because you’re wild, loyal, gorgeous, and completely yours.

And when he sees you fixing your lipstick in the mirror, muttering about “those damn tourists ruining your front lawn with their crusty-ass footprints,” he leans in, smirks, and says:

“You’re somethin’ else, sugar.”

“Damn right I am, baby.”

Charles Lee Ray

From the second Charles laid eyes on you, he was in love — or as close to love as a scumbag soul trapped in a plastic body could get. There you were, standing in your sunlit kitchen with checkered curtains, a powder-pink apron cinched over your dress, red lipstick perfectly applied, and a frilly headband keeping your victory rolls in place.

It would’ve been a Leave-It-To-Beaver wet dream if it weren’t for the fact you were scrubbing blood off your floor with a mop and muttering:

“Fuckin’ hell, I just waxed this floor yesterday. Asshole couldn’t have died somewhere useful, huh? Like the goddamn backyard?”

And then, as if the universe wanted to seduce Charles specifically, you turned around, smiled at him sweet as peach pie and said:

“Well hey there, sweetheart! You want lemonade, or are you just here to stare at me like a constipated jackrabbit?”

He burst out laughing. Loud, genuine, amused-as-all-hell laughter.

You didn’t flinch. You even giggled, because you knew what you were — a contradiction wrapped in satin gloves and peppermint-scented rage. Charles was used to blood and chaos. What he wasn’t used to was someone matching his energy while wearing kitten heels and pearls.

You were affectionate, sweet, doting — calling him things like “darlin’,” “my little firecracker,” and “handsome devil” while simultaneously using language that would get you banned from network TV. You’d make him a sandwich and say:

“Here ya go, baby. Don’t eat it too fast or you’ll choke like a goddamn dumbass. Love you.”

He adored you. Couldn’t get enough. He never knew whether you were going to kiss him or insult his life choices, and honestly? That was his favorite part.

You had this voice — soft, airy, almost sing-song — and everything that came out of it was horrendously explicit. You’d read cookbooks aloud while replacing every measurement with swear words:

“Two goddamn cups of that floury bullshit… half a fuckin’ teaspoon of baking soda — NOT powder, unless you want it to explode like my ex’s tiny-ass ego…”

Charles would just be there on the counter in doll form, cackling, kicking his little feet while watching you flounce around like a pissed-off Stepford Wife.

You and Charles were murder soulmates. You looked like the type who’d faint at the sight of blood, but no — you were the one snapping the guy’s wrist while Charles stabbed him in the neck.

And every time, without fail, you'd pause mid-murder to scold someone:

“You absolute dickweed — who the hell tries to run in heels? You're making me chase you in my good apron, and I swear to Christ if you get blood on my fuckin' blouse I’m gonna give your corpse a goddamn makeover and parade it around like a prize hog at the county fair.”

It was poetry. It was obscene. Charles would be doubled over laughing while also violently stabbing someone. It was romantic, really.

You kept your home pristine. Pink appliances, floral curtains, vintage everything. But the second something went wrong — toaster didn’t pop, radio signal cut — the cussing started.

“This stupid, limp-dick, crusty-ass bread ruiner of a toaster is testing my goddamn patience!”

Chucky: “I love you so fucking much.”

You once threatened to strangle a Jehovah’s Witness with your phone cord because he insulted your dress length. Another time, you told a nosy neighbor:

“Oh honey, if you spent half as much time worrying about your own pussy as you do about mine, you wouldn’t be getting cheated on every weekend. Want some brownies?”

Chucky was so proud he cried. Actual tears (okay, blood, but still).

What stunned Charles most was that underneath all the murder and swearing, you were incredibly level-headed. You kept him grounded. You could disembowel a guy and still remind Charles to take his medicine or brush blood out of his hair before bed.

You kissed his scars. You never judged the way he looked — even as a doll, you’d sit him on your lap, stroke his fiery red hair, and say:

“You’re my cute little bastard. Don’t care if you’re plastic or not. You still get me wetter than a hurricane, baby.”

He blushed. Chucky actually blushed.

You helped stitch him back together after a fight with Tiffany (who lowkey respected you but also wanted to fight you for being too hot and fun). You two would get drunk together and throw knives at moving targets, taking turns insulting each other:

You: “You throw like your dick’s on backwards.” Chucky: “You flirt like a grandma with dementia.”You: “Still sucked you off better than she did.” Chucky: “...Okay, fair.”

Charles never expected to be happy — truly happy — until you. He was chaos incarnate, a murderer, a soul in a broken doll. But you? You were delightfully unhinged, dressed like a Disney character but cussing out reality like it owed you rent.

And the weirdest thing?

You made him feel safe.

You didn't just tolerate his psychotic tendencies — you embraced them, matched them, outpaced them, all while baking cherry pies and yelling about flaky crust like it was a war crime.

He never stood a chance.

351 notes · View notes