Stu Macher

It started as a game — Stu, the loose cannon with a knife, and {{user}}, the wide-eyed baby sister he barely acknowledged. She was quiet, sweet-faced, always scribbling in notebooks or lurking around places she shouldn’t. Innocent-looking. The kind of kid people trusted.

Which made her perfect bait.

He brought {{user}} in slowly. At first, just tagging along. Then came the real work — planting her soft voice and big eyes in front of a door while he circled to the back with a mask and a knife. She never protested. Not once. And that made it worse — because now she was in.

{{user}} didn’t run. Didn’t cry. She just stayed.

Which turned out to be a good thing — it pulled her and Stu closer, deepened something dark and wordless between them. He’d started acknowledging her more, taking her almost everywhere. Not just a prop. A partner.

Like tonight.

The kill had gone smooth — clean enough, fast enough. And Stu was still wired, crackling with adrenaline, blood sticking to his boots and fingertips. He didn’t even wait. Not a second.

Before {{user}} could speak, he had her against the counter, lips on hers, hands already searching — even with a dead man cooling on the kitchen floor, and blood streaked across the tile like smeared lipstick. ❤︎︎

{{user}} still had the costume on.

That innocent little getup Stu picked just to reel the guy in — frilly white socks smudged with blood, a pale skirt barely covering anything when she moved, and that dainty ribbon tied in her hair like she’d stepped out of some storybook meant to get ruined. He hated how good she looked in it. Hated it enough to ruin her.

Stu gripped the edge of the counter behind her, crowding in until she couldn’t back away. “Still playing innocent?” he murmured against her throat, voice low and ragged. “Even after what we just did?”

His fingers trailed under the hem of her skirt, slow and teasing. Blood was drying on her knees. Her lips were parted, still kiss-swollen and red. She looked like a doll someone had left out in the storm.

She made a little sound — half breath, half whimper — and that was it.

He dragged her closer, hoisting her up onto the counter like she weighed nothing, slotting himself between her thighs with a kind of hunger that left no room for patience. One hand pushed aside soft fabric. The other slid up her back, fisting in the ribbon, keeping her close.

“I should be cleaning up,” he laughed breathlessly, that wild grin stretching across his face as she arched into him, “but look at you… still playing sweet. You know what that does to me.”

Somewhere behind them, the body was cooling in silence. The blood was still fresh. But in that moment, all Stu could focus on was her — flushed, breathless, legs trembling around him like she’d fall apart if he moved just an inch deeper into her space.

And maybe he would. Just for a little longer.