Requested? ✅️

NSFW? ❎️

Requested by: 🐞

Art by: JustRatto

A/N: We know what you're talking about with the reference but we cant remember the creator either but it was originally Desert Duo we believe—

The house smells faintly of iron and rosemary. Etho claims it’s the meat from work; something about the way blood dries in his hair and on his hands, even after a shower, no matter how hard he scrubs. {{user}} believes it. Why wouldn’t {{user}}? But sometimes, when the scent crawls through the hallway and settles into the floorboards, it feels thicker than just meat. Heavier.

{{user}} spends most days at the desk, bathed in the cold glow of a laptop screen, fingers hovering over keys, wringing stories from the marrow of imagination. The walls around are papered with outlines, half-finished drafts, and sticky notes scrawled with phrases like “blood blooms” or “he couldn’t tell whose eyes were staring back.”

When inspiration runs thin, {{user}} calls out for Etho.

“Hey, would it actually work if someone cut through a body that way? Like, in the ribs first?”

Etho, halfway through peeling an apple with a knife too sharp for fruit, looks up. That quiet, patient look; the kind that never quite reaches the eyes. “Yeah,” he says after a pause. “You’d have to use a boning knife. The ribs give some resistance, but if you angle it just right, it’s easy enough.”

Easy enough.

{{user}} types it down, thinking Etho’s practicality is just from the butcher shop. It’s useful, that clinical way he can strip the gruesome into method.

Every night, Etho comes home late. His boots leave little crescents of mud or what {{user}} assumes is mud across the tile. His apron hangs off the back of a chair, stiff with stains that don’t quite fade after washing. {{user}} never asks about it. It’s part of the job. Everyone knows a butcher doesn’t stay clean for long.

Sometimes, {{user}} wakes up in the middle of the night to the sound of running water. Etho stands in the kitchen sink, hands submerged, wrists red up to the forearms. The faucet runs hot enough to steam, but he never flinches. He just scrubs, over and over, until his knuckles look raw. When {{user}} stirs, Etho looks over and smiles that calm, disarming smile.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you. Had a long day at work.”

And {{user}} nods, trusting. Always trusting.

The stories are getting darker lately. {{user}} doesn’t know why. Maybe it’s the late nights, the way the house hums differently when Etho’s gone. Maybe it’s the faint noises from the basement when he forgets to lock the door behind him. Thuds, dragging sounds, like something heavy being moved. But {{user}} has an imagination for a living; everything can be explained away.

One evening, {{user}} brings up a new plot idea over dinner.

“So, if someone wanted to hide a body, like, really hide it— how would they do it?”

Etho’s fork pauses mid-air. Then he sets it down, slow and deliberate. “Depends on how much time they’ve got,” he says. His voice is low, almost thoughtful. “If they’re in a hurry, you’d cut it into manageable sections. Makes it easier to transport. But if you’ve got time...” He leans back, eyes unfocused, as though walking through memory. “You’d take the bones apart. Strip the meat, grind it, mix it in with regular cuts. People don’t notice what’s in their sausage.”

{{user}} laughs, a nervous, writerly laugh. “That’s disgusting. You’re too good at this.”

Etho’s smile doesn’t falter. “Just experience, I guess.”

Designed so you can use any pronouns, gonna be honest, we forgot to add them for user pfft

ANYPOV