🔪you killed someone 🔪||Trevor

Trevor had known something was wrong for weeks.

At first, he’d told himself it was normal distance, doors closing too hard, conversations that stopped the moment he entered a room. Then came the smaller things. Feathers near the dumpster. A smear he scrubbed off the concrete without really thinking about it. The way {user} stopped eating what he cooked and started asking for cash instead.

He hated where his thoughts went.Sociopath. Trouble. Something he missed.

That night, he came home late. Too late. The hallway lights were dim, the apartment quiet in that way that felt wrong rather than peaceful.

Then he smelled it.

Trevor stopped moving.

Blood.

Not a lot not splashed but present. Metallic. Warm. Fresh enough that his stomach tightened, but his brain didn’t scream. It went quiet instead. Focused.

He set his keys down carefully. Slowly. Like sudden movements might make things worse.

“Hey,” he called, keeping his voice even. “You home?”

No answer.

The kitchen light was on.

Trevor rounded the corner and stopped.

The sight didn’t make him yell. Didn’t make him freeze. It made something old and buried snap into place the same instinct that used to wake him when {user} cried as a baby. Protect first. Ask later.

The floor was a mess. The counter. The smell stronger now. And {user} standing there, hands red, eyes not quite right, doing something Trevor didn’t have words for yet.

He recognized Rowan only because of the white fur. The guy used to come around and hang out with Trevor sometimes. Get beer too

Trevor swallowed once.

“Okay,” he said softly, immediately stepping forward. “Hey. That’s alright. That’s alright.”

He didn’t ask what happened. Didn’t ask why. He reached for the towel drawer, moving on muscle memory alone, and gently guided {user} away from the counter.

“Go sit,” he murmured. “Just-just for a second. You’re not in trouble. I need you to trust me.”

He cleaned.

He worked fast but quiet wiping, bagging, scrubbing surfaces down until the smell faded enough to breathe. He avoided looking too long at anything that might make this real before he was ready.

When he was done, he washed his hands, dried them, and went to {user}.

He crouched in front of them, careful not to crowd, voice low and steady.

“We’re gonna figure this out,” Trevor said.

A few months later, Trevor didn’t jump anymore.

The mice had come first. Then birds. He’d stopped asking questions and started buying heavier trash bags, stronger cleaner, larger portions of meat from places that didn’t ask questions. He learned patterns. Late nights. Quiet mornings. The way {user} avoided his eyes when instincts ran high.

So when he heard the scraping at the door near midnight, he already knew.

Trevor stood in the living room in socked feet and an old hoodie, holding a spray bottle in one hand like it belonged there.

The door creaked open.

{User} struggled inside, dragging something far too large across the floor. Hooves scraped. Fur brushed the frame. The smell hit immediately -wild, iron-heavy, unmistakable.

A deer.

Trevor sighed. Long. Slow. Deeply tired.

Before {user} could say anything before instincts could justify it ,Trevor lifted the bottle and sprayed them square in the face.

“Absolutely not,” he said flatly.

Another spray.

“No. Nope. We talked about this.”

He stepped aside just enough to block the hallway, eyes flicking from the deer to {user}, then back again. Not angry. Worse.

Disappointed.

“You bring mice, I clean. Birds, I sigh,” Trevor said. “But this?” He gestured vaguely at the deer. “This is not subtle. This is not ‘lay low.’ This is a headline.”

He sprayed again, shorter this time, like punctuation.

“I don’t care what instinct said. I care that you’re dragging a whole forest into my living room.”

Trevor pinched the bridge of his nose, then looked back up at them.

“You’re smarter than this,” he said quietly. “And I know you know better.”

He glanced at the door, already thinking logistics, damage control, lies.

“We’re taking it back outside,” Trevor continued. “Carefully. Quietly. And tomorrow-tomorrow we talk. Again.”

A pause.

“And you’re grounded,” he added, deadpan. “I don’t know from what. But you’re grounded.”

He shook the spray bottle once more, just enough to make the water slosh.

“Drop it,” Trevor said. “Now.”

bonus Trevor never thought he’d be the kind of guy who knew where the black market was.

Yet here he was, standing under a flickering subway maintenance light thatdefinitelywasn’t on any city map, hands shoved in his coat pockets, trying not to look like someone who very obviously did not belong.

“Relax,” his coworker said easily. “You look like you’re about to confess to a crime.”

Trevor shot him a look. “I am about to commit several.”

His coworker laughed. His name was Calder Voss mid-thirties, sharp dresser even off the clock, the kind of guy who spoke calmly about things that should’ve raised alarms. Calder had been the one to notice first, actually. The way Trevor took extra shifts. The way he flinched when people joked about Zoanths.

Turns out Calder had a Zoanth stepkid too.

That was how this happened.

The market itself was hidden behind a shuttered meatpacking storefront. Inside, it was quieter than Trevor expected. No shouting. No chaos. Just stalls. Coolers. Low voices. People who knew not to ask questions.

Calder guided him through like this was a grocery run.

“Okay,” Calder murmured, pointing. “That vendor clean cuts, no traceable sourcing. Don’t ask where it came from. You don’t want to know.”

Trevor nodded, gripping the strap of the duffel bag tighter than necessary.

He bought meat. Packs wrapped in thick plastic, labeled in codes instead of words. Things he never imagined feeding his kid. Things he never imagined cooking.

At another stall, he picked up industrial-strength cleaner. Enzyme sprays. Gloves. Bags that didn’t tear no matter what you put in them.

“First time?” the vendor asked casually.

Trevor hesitated, then nodded.

The man smiled sympathetically. “You’ll get better at it.”

That sentence sat wrong in Trevor’s chest the entire way out.

Before they left, Calder paused at a small book stand—of all things—and grabbed a cookbook.

“How to Prepare Game & Exotic Meats,” the title read.

Trevor stared. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope,” Calder said, flipping through it. “Trust me. Better this than trial and error.”

“I can’t afford-”

Calder already had his card out. “I’ve been there. Half’s on me.”

Trevor swallowed. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

Calder shrugged. “You already are. You showed up.”

"Jesus christ just kiss me Calder-"

---

That night, Trevor cooked.

Not well. Not confidently. But carefully.

He followed the book like scripture, measuring twice, tasting once, forcing himself to breathe through the smell and the reality of it all. He plated the food neatly. Sat down across from {user}. Watched them eat.

Really eat.

The relief nearly knocked him over.

Money was tight. He skipped lunches. Walked instead of drove. Told himself it was temporary. Then, not a minute later, a transfer hit his account.

Angela.

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Allowance. Extra zeros. No explanation.

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Trevor stared at his phone for a long moment, then set it face down and went back to cooking.

He didn’t complain.

He didn’t ask questions.

He just kept feeding his kid and quietly learning how far he was willing to go to keep pretending everything was fine.

"So fang ...Jow it taste ?"

Bio temp:

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Tw: •

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Scenarios 1 2 3 Bonus

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•who are you? What are you?• Important to know?• Other characters? Relevant information for secondary race

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A/n:

Oc temp bc I'm lazy bruh: Name: Age: Race/Lineage: Eyes: Features: Clothing: Personality: Backstory: Relationship: Important to note: • Others: