Careful Where You Stand (Mason/Katherine)
Ti,tle: Careful Where You Stand
Fandom/Pairing: TVD/Mason-Katherine
Summary: A few weeks after Jimmy's death, Mason undergoes his first transformation and Katherine is there for him the next morning.
Rating: M (for mature, graphic sex)
Written for: Dark Ships Meme "what a mess you made"
Disclaimer: I own nothing
Spoilers: slightly "Kill or be Killed"
Word: 1607
AN: A short fic. It seems like most folks weren't digging this pairing. I am. The 'bond' between Mason and Katherine is interesting to me. There's no doubt in my mind that he's a pawn like everyone else in Kat's game. But he seems enamored with her, I think he may have been compelled, but he does seem to be the same lovesick fool that most men become around her. I enjoy thinking about that sort of nastiness, Kat's power over men, what they become around her, and thought I'd try my hand at it writing it.
Feedback: Is truly better than Mason's abs and Katherine's strut.
Careful Where You Stand
---he's on the edge of a great precipice---
“I’m sorry.” She says, her voice low from somewhere behind him.
He’s sitting on his bed, facing the window. The blinds are drawn against the early morning sun. His body hunched over, caving in on itself; he’s trying to disappear. His fingers rub roughly at his eyes and he keeps them there, mask-like across his face. Bright, red scratches cover his shoulders and back; they sting dully. His skin is mottled gray from dust and grime; probably picked up from the basement floor where he woke up this morning before he found the strength to stagger one flight of stairs to his bedroom. He’s sluggish, and moving too fast makes him dizzy. She tells him it’s from the sedative she shot into his system when he changed last night and she couldn’t find any other way to control him.
Changed. It’s a weird thing to think about. When did he start to change; when did this… thing inside of him begin? What the fuck was going on?
He breathes out and stares fixedly at the dark-wood trim along the foot of the wall. “Did you know what I was - when it happened?”
She shifts on the mattress behind him; the bed dips as she moves closer and rests a cool hand on his back. Her finger traces the ridged column of his spine. He shivers at the slight touch and steeples his hands together; they’re sticky with sweat and other things he must've picked up, and he can’t stop bouncing his knee.
“No, not really, I suspected though.” She’s remarkably unruffled by all of this.
And he’s ready to shit bricks. “When?”
“A few days ago, I noticed something in your eyes and with the timing…” She says this as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“So what am I? Some kind of freak?”
She winds her hands around from his back to his shoulders, splays them against his chest before she turns his face toward her. She runs her fingers along his collar bone, an appraisal, almost the way you’d examine an animal before you bought it at a pet store and tells him, “No, you’re just different - like I am.”
“I-I killed someone.” He starts to shake again and she hugs him, strokes the hair at the nape of his neck, shushes him, “Don’t worry about that, it’s all taken care of.”
The words sink in. He shakes his head and jack-knifes from the bed, away from her. “What do you mean ‘taken care of’, Kat?”
Her forehead wrinkles in what looks like impatience before smoothing over, so fast, he barely catches it. She rises off the bed, all feline grace, and stands before him. “What do you think I mean, Mason? If the police knew about you killing someone last night, you’d be in jail.” He feels stupid like a child rapped on the knuckles.
“B-but it was an accident - I didn’t - I wasn’t in my right mind,” he tries to say. It’s a weak defense but the thought of taking responsibility for this - for what he did - shit, it’s scary. He swipes a nervous hand through his hair.
She snorts and looks at him. “You think they’ll believe you - just a few weeks after Jimmy? How do you think I got rid of them in the first place, hunh? That you’re not rotting in some jail cell and they’re not charging you with manslaughter right now?”
“You did that - how?” It’s taken care of, all taken care of.
Stepping closer, she presses her hands against his abdomen, and gets an appraising look in her eye, possessive, and then a giggle escapes her. Her eyes snap mischievously. “Oh, I have my tricks.”
He grips her wrists hard, suddenly angry at this, at how it feels as though she knows something he doesn’t, and that she’s laughing at him. “I’m serious, Katherine.”
The smile dies on her face and she’s expressionless and then her eyes become dark, black pits; webbed veins radiating from them like something dead, rotten. Her skin is paler than pale. She blinks and reveals two fangs, sharp. He yanks his hands from her like she’s poisonous, staggers back into the wall. “What - what the hell - what are you?”
She reverts to normal with a casual toss of her head - was normal the word? And who the hell was she? What was she? Hot Kat, Marla’s friend from college, housemate, an orphan from somewhere back East - he doesn’t really know that much about her when it comes down to it.
Smirking, she steps closer, and her eyes deepen to burnt umber, hidden flames licking in their depths, she says slowly, calmly in a low voice that lulls, “I’m your friend, Mason - always your friend.”
The questions dissipate, become insubstantial as clouds, and he returns the smile.
And then she leans up and catches his lower lip in a kiss; tongue swiping across his blood from where he bit himself earlier, suckling.
He pulls away breathlessly, a question rising but she lays her fingers across his mouth. “Shh, I told you.” Her eyes draw him in again; he feels like he’s drowning, gasping for air. “We’re friends. You can trust me - let me help you.”
---tiny rocks, pebbles, flat on the sides and rounded at the edges, teeter and fall into the dark. he doesn’t hear when they land---
He nods.
Inside of him, his most basic, instinctual self protests against this. He should run away from her - or, even better, destroy her. But he can’t, not with her gaze boring into him. It all feels inevitable. He hates that.
He leans in and kisses her. Not gentle but hungry, teeth clacking against teeth. His hands slide over her back, the curve of her waist, down to her thighs. He lifts her leg up, notches it on his hip and rubs his hardening length against her.
She pulls away and shoves him against the wall with a cracking thud; comes at him with unnatural speed. Her fingers grope at his chest, re-opening his half-healed wounds, ripping out new ones. He swivels, and slams her against the surface. Her elbow hits the air conditioner with a clang; cool air whirrs by their ears as he sinks his mouth into the hollow at her throat.
Her clothes come off quickly, clingy yoga pants ripped, tank-top yanked down to her waist, and he lowers his mouth to nibble at her breasts, teeth rubbing at a flushed aureole.
She purrs above him, her nails dig into his scalp, pushing and pulling at his hair. He trails his lips down along her abdomen, the rim of her lacy panties, and breathes her in, scents her with muffled growl. Tart and sickly sweet, like crushed fruit; licks her through the insubstantial material. It’s not enough. He drags the panties down and then one slow swipe across her cunt, tasting, gorging on her.
He’s sure he’s going to make her come; he can tell from the way she’s gasping, the way the muscles in her thigh, pressed against his ear, keep flexing taut. She throws him back forcefully; he feels the burn of it in his shoulder. He falls back on the rug, landing on his elbow. She smiles at his prone position, her eyes are black gold now, triumphant, before she blurs to straddle him, digging past his jeans and bringing his cock out. He’s hard, leaking at the tip; she wraps her fingers around him and smirks at his intake of breath. Then he’s sliding up inside her.
“Oh, fuck.” His eyelids shut at the feel of it. She’s slick, tight.
She throws her head back and starts to ride him. He opens his eyes to watch and she’s looking down at him, her face changed again, mouth open in a fanged snarl. He growls. The thing inside responds instinctively to her; he can feel it clawing, tearing away at him to come out.
She’s thrusting hard enough to bruise. He meets each rocking motion, fingers clamped on her buttocks, strained. And then he feels a sharp prick and her teeth sliding into the flesh where his shoulder meets his throat. Hungry, slurping sounds fill the room as she suckles, and a burning heat where his blood thrums, spills out of him and into her. The animal inside hates this while he, Mason, revels in the feel of it. “Kat,” his voice breaks; his sacs tighten and he jerks upwards.
She pulls away, her mouth glistening luridly in the dim, like clown-lips. She nudges her face against his cheek, still sliding sinuously around his length. Her small breasts graze his chest. “You taste - different. I like it.” Snaring his wrists, squeezing hard, she traps his hands above his head and wrings her inner muscles around his cock at the same time.
He yelps at the tightness. She’s looking at him, lips curled, face unreadable - oddly, removed. It feels like even though she makes the right sounds, slams her pelvis down into his, runs her palms down to his elbow, keeps him down, she’s not fully there or doesn’t particularly care about any of this.
There’s no mistaking who has who in this equation. Right then, he doesn’t even give a fuck.
She touches his mouth with hers; he tastes his own blood, bitter and sweet. Like loss. She pulls a hairsbreadth away, locks her gaze on his, and whispers, “Come.”
There’s no stopping it. He wouldn’t try if he wanted to. He’s already gone.
---he falls---
fin