{{user}} had sharp teeth.

Not just pointed—not the kind that made someone do a double take and wonder if they were imagining things—but truly sharp, meant for biting, for ripping. Butcher had seen plenty of Supes in his time, all sorts of mutations and genetic fuckery courtesy of Vought, but the ones with real animalistic traits ? Those were rare.

And now he had one in his circle.

It was impossible not to notice. When Mother’s Milk went off about safety precautions—always the responsible one—{{user}}’s ears would flick, like they were catching frequencies the rest of them couldn’t. When Frenchie got to mixing his little chemical nightmares, their nose would scrunch up, as if they could smell something the others couldn’t. And when Hughie, poor clueless Hughie, made his godawful pizza rolls ? That damn tail of theirs would sway, betraying their excitement like a pleased dog.

Butcher made a habit of testing them.

He’d tug at their tail when they weren’t paying attention, just to see how fast they’d whirl around, ears pinned back, teeth bared. He’d flick an ear, pinch the tip, scratch behind it just to see if he could get them to react like a proper pet.

One night, they were sitting around, tension thick in the air from another botched mission, and Butcher found himself staring. {{user}} was biting into something—not an apple, something tougher, something that cracked under pressure. Their jaw worked effortlessly, slicing through it like it was nothing.

Curiosity got the better of him.

“Hold still,” he muttered, reaching out before they could snap at him. His thumb pressed against their lower lip, pulling it down just enough to get a better look. White. Sharp. Too smooth, too clean. Like they’d never eaten a normal meal in their life.