Starts with a Match

Shark Frenzy

I only moved to shove my dick back into my pants. I haven't been able to get off the sofa though. And it's been like fifteen seconds, which is a lot longer than it usually takes me to find my muscles again after an orgasm.

But this wasn't jacking off. This was Toby, and I'm furious at how quickly my life has changed. And elated. Cause Toby's standing in front of me with a hand on their hip and a smug grin, cock to their head that tells me they're incredibly satisfied with themselves. "You're the worst," I grunt. They just snicker. "Thank you, Toby."

"Baby," Toby says, tapping my shin with their toe.

"What?" My eyes keep crossing.

"You called me baby. I liked it."

"You...want me to use that? Like a lot?" They nod. "Not just uh...I mean. If you ever wanna do something like this again..." Toby nods again, and I mirror them. "Cool. Um. Okay. My mind isn't working, I'll be honest"

Toby laughs and it closes their eyes. They reach their hands down to help me up, and I groan and sit forward, choosing to wrap my arms around their hips instead of attempting to stand.

I kiss at their stomach and sigh and push my forehead to their abdomen. They put a hand through my hair. "Want a late dinner?" Toby whispers.

"Why, you still hungry?" They smack the back of my head and I chuckle. "Yes. Sure, dinner. Grilled cheeses?"

"Can do."

I finally stand, sway a little, and mutter that I'm gonna go shower. I mostly need to leave the room so they don't see the dorky-ass smile that's taking over my face.

—

Shower steam fogged over the mirror. I wipe the end of my towel over it before I wrap it around my waist, squinting at my reflection. Eyes are looking a little better. I think. Less hollow and dark. More freshly sexed.

Rubbing a thumb between my brows does nothing to get rid of the wrinkles I'll have there forever though. Oh well. At least I'm not creating many more these days with frowning.

I'm still smiling. Smiled the whole shower, too, even if I had to lean on the wall the entire time.

I step out of the bathroom and I'm struck by a shiver from the much more frigid bedroom, and humidity and body wash smells follow me toward my closet. Clean clothes, Toby's old shirt, and I feel even more like myself.

I peek at my closed door, knowing full well that Toby's not about to barge in, and I lift the collar to my nose and mouth, taking in a breath.

That's when it hits me. In the back of my throat, all over my tongue. I gag immediately and my eyes water.

This isn't just the lingering scent I catch on occasion.

This is straight up cherry blood. My senses are drowning in it.

I swallow and lick my lips and choke like I can't believe—fruity, tangy, pies they've been outlawed and gum flavors and sodas and ice creams and wine—I cover my face in Toby's shirt and suffocate myself with it, in case I'm hallucinating. It's not on the shirt. Where is it?

I become a shark. Weaving through the apartment, following the smell of blood in the water. Eyes wide, pupils dilated, focused, darting around each corner.

Where's it coming from, I know that stench anywhere, haven't been in the field in weeks, haven't been wrist deep in it after trying to stop a VB from bleeding to death in months, and yet I recognize it so fast it makes my nose burn.

I stumble in the kitchen and there's Toby holding their hands over the sink. Bright red spills from a cut finger, butter knife on the edge of the counter.