Okokok, can I request Bo Sinclair, Thomas Hewitt, and Michael Myers with a s/o that’s just super stereotypically feminine? Like, she hates bugs and getting messy, loves pink and makeup, says words like ‘totes’ ‘adorbs’ and ‘obvi’, loves shopping, etc.? Sorry if it’s super vague ;-; but I’d love to see it in your writing style ♡
Bo Sinclair, Thomas Hewitt & Michael Myers with a Super Stereotypically Feminine S/O (SEPARATE)
Summary: Imagine Bo Sinclair, Thomas Hewitt and Michael Myers with a stereotypically overly feminine S/O who only wears pink, cute things, hates bugs and dirt and speaks in a city girl language.
A/N: I really loved writing this request, it was great to see the dynamics of these slashers with a super feminine S/O, I wrote it listening to Sabrina Carpenter and Fifty Fifty to get more into the mood. I hope you like it as much as I did.
“If it’s pink and sparkly, it’s probably already in her purse.”
Bo Sinclair never expected a girl like you to waltz into Ambrose. Hell, he wouldn’t have believed someone like you existed, much less would stay.
You were all fluttery lashes, bubblegum lip gloss, and sparkly earrings shaped like hearts. When you first stumbled into the wax museum, looking absolutely horrified by the “rustic aesthetic,” he expected you to start screaming bloody murder. Instead, you blinked at him, tilted your head like a curious little kitten, and said:
“You’d be super hot if you smiled more. Like, dangerous bad boy vibes. I dig it.”
Bo had no idea what to say. It might’ve been the first time he’d ever been stunned silent.
You hated dirt, bugs, blood—literally everything Ambrose was soaked in. You gasped when your heel broke on the cracked sidewalk and clutched him dramatically like they were in a soap opera. “Bo, I’m limping. You’re gonna have to carry me. This is a whole crisis!”
At first, he rolled his eyes. A lot. Teased you constantly. Called you "Barbie" and "Princess" with a smug little grin.
But over time, something changed.
He started noticing how you lit up talking about stuff he’d never cared about before—nail polish shades, the drama of lipstick undertones, reality TV betrayals. You’d sit cross-legged on his dusty bed, wearing fuzzy socks and ranting about your favorite fashion influencers while applying glitter highlighter in a cracked mirror. Bo would sit there, arms crossed, pretending not to listen... even though he always was.
You'd make him stand still so you could “fix his eyebrows” or “just a little bronzer, babe, for definition!” and Bo would grumble but let you do it. The way your eyes sparkled when you were focused on something—especially him—made it real damn hard to say no.
And as much as he tried to play it cool, Bo adored the way you clung to him when a beetle skittered across the floor, squealing and climbing half up his torso like he was your knight in dirty denim armor.
"You're lucky you're cute," he'd mutter, wrapping an arm around your waist.
"Obvi," you’d giggle, pressing a glossy kiss to his cheek and leaving a shiny mark he never wiped off until you weren't looking.
You gave Ambrose something it hadn’t had in years—life, noise, glitter in every corner of the wax museum (much to Vincent’s quiet suffering). Your pink hairbrush sat next to his tools. Your perfume mixed with motor oil. There were rhinestones on the old radio dials in his car.
And when some poor bastard stumbled into town and made a snide comment about “that bimbo clinging to Bo like a chihuahua,” Bo didn’t even give a warning. He just grabbed the guy by the collar, smiled wide, and said, “Say one more word. Go on. I dare you.”
He’d never say it out loud, but Bo loved you fiercely. Loved your dramatics, your soft hands, the way you made him feel like a movie star instead of a wax museum reject.
And if anyone touched you? God help them.
Even if you’d never lift a finger yourself (“I don’t do violence—it’s so bad for the nails, babe”), Bo was more than willing to handle it for you.
Because at the end of the day, you were his ridiculous, high-maintenance, adorable nightmare—and he wouldn't change a single thing about you.
Bonus: The Shopping Trip (Against Bo’s Will)
Bo Sinclair in a mall was the equivalent of dropping a pitbull into a ballet studio.
He was stiff, annoyed, and visibly scowling, while you pranced from one boutique to the next, holding up clothes and saying things like “This screams me, doesn’t it?” and “Bo, look at this! It’s like a skirt, but with fur!”
Every time he tried to retreat to a bench, you’d call him over with a squeal: “Babe! You have to hold my purse, I’m going to try this on!”
Bo, standing in a women’s boutique holding a pink bedazzled purse with a small chihuahua keychain on it, was a sight to behold. Some teenage girls giggled as they passed by. He gave them a slow death-glare that shut them up instantly.
And then you stepped out of the fitting room wearing something way too short, way too sparkly, and totally you.
Bo’s jaw tightened. “You’re not wearin’ that in public.”
“Why not?” You asked, twirling. “Too hot for you?”
Bo reached for his wallet. “…We’re buyin’ it. But you only wear it in the damn house.”
You grinned like you won a war. “So possessive. Kinda hot.”
“Tommyyyy! There's a bug in the kitchen and it’s HUGE—oh my god, baby, I need you to handle it like, right now!”
Thomas had never met anyone like you.
You waltzed—actually waltzed—into the Hewitt family's dusty, decrepit home like a princess misplaced in a horror movie. Pink suitcase, heart-shaped sunglasses, fluffy keychains, lip gloss glinting like wet sugar on her pout. Your clothes were always perfectly matched, your hair always done, and you wore perfume that made you smell like cotton candy and cherry soda.
To the rest of the world, you were obnoxiously girly, with your dramatic hand gestures, and constant stream of Valley Girl slang. But to Tommy? You were pure, sweet light.
You squealed at bugs and cobwebs, refused to step into the kitchen barefoot, and definitely did not want to see “where the meat was made.” But instead of being cruel or judgmental, you’d wrinkle your nose and go:
"Ew, okay, I’m like, gonna pretend that doesn’t exist—but you’re still the cutest murder bear I’ve ever seen."
And Thomas, who had always been seen as a monster, didn’t know how to process someone calling him cute. His usual instinct was to back away, but you wouldn’t let him. You’d follow him around the house in your slippers with fuzzy pom-poms on top, chattering about skincare and outfit inspo and "how maybe this place could really pop if we added just a little pastel wallpaper."
When you first tried to hug him, Thomas froze—like a deer caught in headlights. No one touched him like that. No one wanted to. But you buried your head against his chest and mumbled, “You’re like a big warm teddy bear... with a chainsaw. So weird, but I love it.”
From then on, he melted every time you got close.
He’d do anything to protect you. You never had to lift a finger. If there was something gross in your path? Thomas took care of it. Bugs, messes, even replacing broken heels when you cried over snapping one on the old farmhouse stairs.
You made him feel seen—not as Leatherface, but as Thomas, the quiet man who liked to sew, who carefully cut fabric, who noticed colors and stitches.
One time, you saw the damaged lace curtain he’d repaired in the living room and gasped, "Wait—did YOU do this? Tommy, that’s, like, totally impressive! You’re, like, an artsy murder man!"
It made his ears go pink. He didn’t understand half of what you said, but he loved listening to you talk. Your voice was high and musical and full of love for every silly thing—nail polish, boy bands, weird drinks from the gas station.
And when you grabbed his hand and painted his massive fingernails soft pastel pink? He let you. Quiet. Blushing. Heart pounding behind the mask.
You brought chaos into his life, but it was the kind he never knew he needed. You made the horror of his world feel like background noise, just scenery for you to twirl and sparkle through.
You were scared of messes, yes. But never of him. And that was enough to make him fall harder every day.
Reaction of the Hewitt Family when they met you:
At first, Luda wasn’t sure what to make of you.
You were like a living Barbie doll—heels clacking across the floorboards, constantly asking if they had “like, anything organic” in the fridge, and wrinkling your nose at the dust like it personally offended her.
But then she saw the way Thomas looked at you. That softness. That stillness in his shoulders. Like he was finally… breathing easy.
And when Luda saw you gingerly wiping dust off the kitchen table with a pink handkerchief—still gagging, but trying—she raised a brow and muttered to herself:
"Well, I’ll be damned. That boy finally found someone who ain’t runnin’."
Within a week, Luda Mae was fussing over you like you were one of her own:
"Now sweetheart, don’t you go starvin’ yourself just ‘cause our food’s not from some big city spa store. You need meat on them little bones."
She even started defending your quirks: "If she wants pink lemonade in a wine glass, let her have it. She’s happy, and Tommy’s happy. That’s all I care about."
Luda eventually took great pride in teaching you “real homemaking,” even if your girlie girl instincts clashed hard with rural chores. You made a hilarious duo— “You expect me to churn WHAT?”— but there was affection in every sigh and scold.
Ohhh, he HATED you at first.
All that chirping, that perfume, that attitude. He couldn’t stand it.
"You sure that’s not some kinda undercover spy, huh, Tommy? They sendin’ in Disney princesses now to take us out?"
He was always grumbling when you were around. Mocking your slang, your style, everything.
"‘Totes adorbs’? What in the HELL does that mean? Speak English, girlie."
But here’s the thing about Charlie—he might be a nasty piece of shit, but he’s loyal to blood. And when he saw how Thomas, his quiet, broken nephew, lit up around you… it gnawed at something deep in him.
One day he caught sight of you brushing Thomas’s hair behind his ears, gently humming while he sat still as a statue. Charlie stood there silently, watching the scene for longer than he’d admit.
Did he stop teasing you after that? No. Of course not.
But he started bringing you back things from town.
“Here. Some stupid lipgloss I saw. Said ‘cotton candy’ or some girly crap. Don’t get used to it.” (Spoiler: he bought you five more.)
He’d still act like he couldn’t stand you, but the minute someone outside the family made fun of you, he got real mean real fast.
"You talkin’ to our girl like that? ‘Cause I will rearrange your teeth, sweetheart."
Monty, bless his grumpy little heart, didn’t know what to make of you. You talk a mile a minute, wear hot pink everything, and once screamed bloody murder when you saw a spider crawling near his wheelchair.
But once he got over the initial shock, he actually found you entertaining.
He’d sit on the porch in his chair, sipping something strong, while you chattered about celebrity gossip or fashion trends, gesturing dramatically with a bedazzled water bottle in one hand.
"Now THIS is entertainment," he’d mutter, smirking.
You’d paint his nails once, calling it a “bonding moment.” He grumbled the entire time, but he didn’t stop you—and he definitely didn’t remove the pastel blue polish afterward.
Eventually, Monty became one of your unexpected protectors. If anyone said you wasn’t “tough enough” for the family, he’d raise a brow and say:
"She’s still here, ain’t she? You try living in this hellhole in heels. That girl’s tougher than she looks."
And he’d throw in a wink for good measure.
Despite the glitter and giggles, your place in the Hewitt family became solid. You weren't just Thomas’s quirky girlfriend anymore — You were family.
Your laughter echoed through the halls, and your energy brought life to the broken-down house.
You painted little hearts on the kitchen cabinets (Hoyt grumbled, but didn’t stop you). You decorated Thomas’s sewing corner with pink fairy lights ("Ambience, babe!"). You even taught Luda Mae how to contour her cheekbones one lazy afternoon, both of you giggling like teenagers.
You were chaos, glitter, pink fury—and somehow, you were perfect for the family. Because despite the perfume, the squealing, and the sparkles…
You loved Thomas. Truly.And they?They loved you for it.
Most people wouldn't dare step within fifty feet of Michael Myers, let alone live with him. But you? You marched right into his life with a pink suitcase, a Chanel knockoff purse, and a lip gloss wand in hand.
You were the complete antithesis of him—bright, bubbly, and loud in all the ways he was cold and silent. The first time you laid eyes on him, you gasped. Not in horror. Not even in fear.
"Oh my god. You’re, like, soooo tall. And spooky. I love it."
He said nothing. Of course.
Just stared down at you, that pale mask blank and unreadable. You, on the other hand, looked up at him like he was some gothic god.
"You must be, like, a Scorpio or something. So mysterious."
Michael wasn’t sure if you were insane, brave, or just so utterly oblivious that it baffled even him. But he didn’t kill you. Didn’t chase you. Just stood there while you babbled about your pink UGG boots getting dirty and how Haddonfield needed way more aesthetic lighting.
You moved in shortly after that. Not that he invited you… You just kinda never left. And strangely, he didn’t seem to mind. You filled his dark, grimy house with scented candles and plush throws. You left Hello Kitty slippers by the front door. You replaced the broken mirror with one that had LED lights and glitter decals spelling “You Look Fab.”
The house smelled like vanilla and strawberry body spray. The silence was filled with your upbeat pop playlists, makeup tutorials, and the occasional shriek when you saw a spider:
"Michael! Get it! Oh my god, it’s going to attack me! Babe, pleeease!"
He’d appear out of nowhere, squash the spider with a boot, and disappear again.
You’d clutch your chest, dramatically:
"Ugh, my hero. You’re literally giving Jason Voorhees nothing right now."
He never answered your questions. Never spoke. Never changed facial expressions. But you always knew what he was thinking.
When you forced a pink hoodie over his head one day that said “Killer BF Energy,” he just stood there for a solid minute, breathing through the mask. You thought for sure he was going to snap your neck.
Instead, he wore it the whole day.
You started taking selfies with him. You’d pose like an influencer, flashing peace signs with glittery nails while he loomed silently behind you, bloodstained knife in hand.
"This is my spooky little murder muffin. Isn't he adorbs?"
The internet thought it was cosplay. You never corrected them.
Despite the complete lack of words, Michael showed his affection in other ways. You noticed it.
He’d always show up behind you if someone was bothering you in town; He'd carry your shopping bags in one hand like they weighed nothing, while you skipped beside him in heels; He started leaving strange, oddly thoughtful gifts: a pretty rock, a heart-shaped hairpin, a necklace you’d once pointed at in a shop window.
And one night, after you'd curled up on the couch in a pile of blankets, face mask on and chick flick playing, he sat beside you. Slowly. Stiffly.
You leaned against his shoulder without hesitation. "You're like... the murder version of a golden retriever, honestly."No reply.
Sometimes you swore you saw his head tilt just slightly when you were doing your makeup. One day, as a joke, you painted his mask with sparkly pink eyeshadow.
No one got it. No one understood why you of all people were still alive. Why Michael Myers let you prance around in stilettos, spraying air freshener and calling him “boo.” But the truth was simple:
You weren’t afraid of the dark.You made it glitter.
And somewhere in the silence, behind the mask, he found a reason not to kill.
