Disclaimer: I don't own Victorious. Sometimes I want to write 'disclammer', so I can shed these damn clams. But alas, my proper spelling wins out. So... no Victorious, plenty clams.


A whispered breath.

You pause. Was it your name?

But Cat's eyes are still closed, teeth sunk into her lip, and it's impossible to tell. You continue with your fast, hard strokes in and out of her. In and out. Back and forth. It's like playing an instrument, except you're sawing at the strings, stretching them to breaking. You don't care if she breaks. All the better.

Cat doesn't seem to care either, back arching, little soft-edged breaths shuddering out of her mouth, broken breaths that cut your skin. She's getting close.

You remember sitting at home last week, nails splayed in front of you. Unpainted. The slightest crescent of white curved above your fingertips, and you'd looked at them indecisively. Cat likes your claws, but you couldn't bring yourself to unsheathe them. So you'd clipped them back to aching, close to the skin, chips and slices scattering over your table.

You wish you had your claws now. Not to maul her, really, but to show her. Show her you could. That you're not her pet, she doesn't own you. Or maybe she did at one point, but you've lost your domesticity. You've slipped out of your collar, even though she's still got her chip under your skin.

Cat's voice saws at your ribs, faster and faster, moans growing in volume, like some quickly approaching train, puffing black smoke and polluting the air. And then, as her ribs pull tight under her skin, and her back arches like a bowstring-

You stop.

You pull your slick fingers from her, wet against your thigh, and calm your hot breath, pull it out of your mouth and hold it in your lungs.

Cat unwinds slowly, dark eyebrows dipped down. Her eyes open, almost black, pupils swimming in the chocolate of her eyes. She looks so perfect. So artificial. Her red hair is like a bloodstain, some violent fantasy you've held before sleeping, to cast her from you. You run your sweating hand through it, tease out the strands, let it drip over your palm. Cat tilts her head, locks slipping free from your fingers. "Tori! Why'd you stop?" Her voice is petulant, frustrated, and it sends a little pang of satisfaction through you.

"Touch me."

The words are a whisper, almost a prayer, chattered out between your freezing teeth.


"Fuck me." Harder, that fumbling softness gone. You hold your splitting seams together with her rusted hooks, send them out in your voice. You're still begging, but you hold back the most pathetic words. Just once. Just touch me once.

Cat licks her lips, eyebrows arrowed, doubtful, but her face is still flushed, her skin is still hot, and her thigh shifts against yours, pressing her core against you.

You let your fingertips creep over her again, Cat shivering slightly. You know she's still close. A few minutes of rubbing, of flicking at that flame in her, and she'd combust. But you're sick of warming yourself off her glow. You want to burn too, until you're nothing but ashes. "Do it."

Your voice is low, thrumming with your blood, and it reverberates through your bones, grips your muscles. "Don't you want to come? You're so close."

This is pleasure in itself. Teasing her. Making her need you. You know she really doesn't, that there are probably a dozen other people she could call besides you. But you're here now, and she's so close. You've coated your hook in sweet things, in the most innocuous of bait. All you need is one bite.

You remember you read somewhere, maybe in history class or something, about cultures that set up fish traps. Traps that were so effective, that they stopped using them. They'd build a wall, a cage, one hidden under the swell of the water, the bones of stones revealed once the tide crept out, and the fish trapped inside. You remember thinking how unfair it was, how easy. The fish swam in, careless, unsuspecting, only to return to a sharp, tumbled wall of rocks. They were trapped without even knowing it.

Cat didn't do that with you. No, she likes to see you struggle. No calm confusion, no subtle capture for you. It's panic and pain that courses through you. But maybe this method could work on her. You've drawn her in with a kiss, blood in the water, and now it's time to let your tide creep out, slowly, slowly, until eventually she's stuck in the shallows, battering at a wall that appeared from nowhere.

Her fingers tickle your thigh, lifted from where they rested on the bed, and your hand is quick to circle her wrist, drawing her hand between your legs. Her hand is still, your wetness coating her, and this is the moment where everything hinges. Whether she decides you're something worth catching, or if it's just better to cut the line, and let you swim with a rotting hook in your lip.

You shudder as her fingers twitch, the lines in her brow smoothing out. Her fingertips find your clit, delving through slick, velvet flesh, and it's a relief that for once it's not your own hand, shaking and desperate after she leaves.

Your spine turns to jelly as she flicks over you, setting a spark and melting the wax of your bones. Your hand spears into the mattress, spine curving forward, unable to keep you upright. And it feels good, so good, a satisfying rub that tickles the back of your throat and sends your blood boiling. If only she'd done this earlier. You never would have escaped her. You're falling in love all over again, but this time your thudding heart is spurting blood from it's ragged wounds. This love can't last for long.

Cat's lips gain a teasing little smile. This is just another game for her, but you're not finished yet. You can't be. You swipe your eyes down, over the curve of her collarbones, marked by your teeth, the swell of her breast, tipped with pink nipples, lathed by your tongue. Her flat stomach, shifting muscles like sand in the dunes of her skin. Your shaking fingers, dripping wax, shiver their way over the sparse patch of hair between her legs, slipping inside of her so easily, burning the ridged tips with her heat, and Cat's smile falters, hand freezing where it rubbed delicately, teasingly over you.

"Tori..." She breathes, and it's the closest she's ever come to moaning your name, the first time that teasing tone has slipped from her voice when she addresses you. It's a please don't stop, please keep going, and you echo it back in her name, dripped from your tongue.

Your thrusts are rough, twisting, uneven as Cat's fingers start on you again, strokes more sure, and you're already so close. It's her touching you. It's Cat, the most perfect, shining, wonderful thing in the world. The most rotten, the most corrupt, the most evil thing you know, and this maelstrom of emotions that seep in your blood make your skin burst, make every touch a pinprick of sharp pleasure. She's got you on edge, and she's not even trying. All you need is a little push.

Cat's fingers grow clumsy as her muscles coil, and you wind them tighter with your thrusting fingers. You stop for just a moment, her back arching. The tip of her tongue dabs at her lips, eyes sliding open, and you wait for her swimming eyes to click onto you, breath held in your belly, before you twist your fingers inside her, stroking a spot that's the wick of her flame, that sends her burning.

"T-T-Tori- Mmph-" Her spine snaps, like a slingshot released, and the sound of your name in her burning voice ignites you, sucks your breath in with a sharp whumph, and your hips are grinding against her hand, that inferno licking through you. And all those times spent alone, your own hand cramping and working furiously, feel like some mere shadow, a wan lightbulb compared to the sun Cat's caused to bloom in you. Your muscles clench in a paroxysm of pleasure, and you're sure if they were just a little tighter, your bones would snap like brittle twigs from the force. Your body is a snake that's just leapt to strike, that's coiling around helpless little Cat, and squeezing her breath out slowly, slowly. Inexorably.

Spittle coats your panting lips, skin like a curtain draped over the rod of your skeleton, loose and heavy, beaded with sweat. Cat's hand slips away from you, creeping to rest on her flat, tan stomach, her muscles already cooling, slick and oiled once again. You unhinge your iron limbs, slide beside her, fluttering wings in your movements, and they beat your breath as you whisper to her. "I don't love you."

For the first time, it's true. For now, at least, in this pure moment. You've shed your tight cocoon, and emerged not a butterfly, but a drab moth. She's not constricting your wings anymore, she's not tying you down, and you want to tell her all this, tell her all the things she can't do anymore. But you don't even think she realises she's done them. You're pretty sure Cat's never thought about you. Everything's about her, and you've let it be too. You've cut the juiciest, tenderest pieces of your heart out, proffered them to her on a shining platter, and tonight, she's taken the most tentative bite.

She looks at you, a quizzical expression warping her face, turning it into some garish mask of bright colours and over-exaggerated emotion. "Tori, what are you doing?" Her voice isn't confused, it's soft, and a little hoarse, and you remember how it sounded when it breathed out your name edged in gold, when you saw the string of your line threading from her throat, and knew you'd succeeded. She might not know she's hooked yet, but you'll make sure she does.

"I'm playing the game, Cat." You smile at her, teeth flashing, and it's the first time it's felt real since that pain throbbed in your heart, useless. Your fingers skim her hips, grazing the warm skin, Cat's eyes flicking down to where you touch, where you flutter your fingers so lightly against her. "It's fair this way." You're not a fish anymore, you want to tell her, you're a whole other kind of animal. You're a bird that she can't catch, you're an insect that can burrow down away from her, you're anything but what you were.

She smiles, slightly, lips curving in a cute bow. "All's fair in love and war, Tor." You wonder which this is. Whether it's still love, or if it's war. Whether there's even a difference. It's still a struggle.

Cat snuggles up against you, hair tickling your nose. It's a night of firsts; she's never let you stay. Your hook hit true, sunk deep. You wonder how long it'll take her to bleed, how long it'll take before she touches her heart and her fingers come back rusty. Before she realises. You hope it's soon, while you're still strong, while your heart stills beats and you can still feel something.

You want to tell her you're not a fish anymore. But that would be a lie. You're still a fish, slimy-scaled, big-lipped, gaping stupidly. But you're too big for her. You've closed your mouth on that hook, and spun that line around yourself until it cut into your flesh. You may be hooked, but you can drag her in with you. You can drown her just like she's drowning you. You can hook her just as much as she's hooked you.


A/N: Thanks to this fic, I can no longer eat fish without whispering, "Tori?" Just in case. But it turned out to be tuna, thankfully. But it wasn't properly cooked, so it actually turned out to be salmon.


Anyway, while I drink like a fish to replenish some important fluids, you should really review. Because this is the end. No more fishing metaphors, and analogies, or similes. This is the part where I mount this on the trophy, and maybe put in a button so it can sing, and I can sell it in gift stores to drunk people.