Just a little thought I had running around my head. Please enjoy.

I don't own Victorious. But I do own a car, a length of rope and Dan Schneiders home address, so...

I wake up and the bed is empty.

I don't know what I expected. For her to be there, whispering beauty into my ear, stroking my hair softly? Even as I think of it I feel the sharp tug in my gut that means that, yes, I did want it. So badly.

I press my face to her side of the pillow, where she slept. It smells warm, the feathery scent of her perfume and memories mingling, encased in the fabric. I run my fingers over it, treasuring it. Mine. Hers. Ours.

I throw the sheets off myself, cold wind whooshing past me. Her shoes are gone from under the mantel piece, her clothes picked up from the crumpled waves they fell in. You wouldn't know what happened here. When did she leave? The clock tells me it's eight.

I brush a hand over the bed sheet. There, I think to myself, a smile tickling my mouth, there she kissed me on the neck, gasps hot, flowing against my skin. And here- here she stuttered, something I've never seen her do, stuttered my name out as her hips jerked and toes curled. I bring my hand up to my lips, press two fingers that carry her scent, her love on them to me. Here, she came in like a whirlwind, capturing me, leaving her mark on me.

My whole body feels different. It's hers now. Her mark is a part of me, pushing its way through my bones, heart, soul. Does she feel the same way? Is she thinking of me now, as she stirs a scalding coffee, sits on her windowsill staring out at the city? Does she know that I'm thinking of her, bringing back every touch we shared, every heavy word whispered into darkness. Every craving kiss. Every inch of her on every inch of me. Black and white dappling her face, eyes fixed on mine and a wry smile as moans slip from my lips, burning like coals tumbling from a fireplace.

Lioness. Dark hair with slits of colour, pale skin, slender fingers. Lips. Telling me I'm nothing, always ready to bite, to lash out. Constantly keeping me on the edge of a string, taut, wound up. Strange how a mouth with words that slash so deep can be so soft, how a girl never lost for words can only moan out "Tori, Tori, Tori." I controlled her, then, there. On this bed, mere hours ago she was mine to hold, to touch, to spill secrets to. It was for brief, flashing seconds until she grasped the reins again, but it was heaven while it lasted.

Am I hers? Is she mine? Or are we twisted together, like a plait of hair, like two girls, thin limbs entangled as they fall onto the mattress. Her words, my words, running into the night and spinning away. I hold out my hand to no one, thinking that if I had done this just hours ago, just thousands of years ago, she would have been there to lock her fingers with mine.

That night, I dream of her.

So, tell me what you think. I crave your opinion! Even if you think I should just throw myself into a volcano, I still want to know. Pretty please?