Authors Note: I'm sick in the head. But I read the line from Cato {in italics under the title there} and I just had to.
His Speciality
"When we find her, I'm killing her my own way. And none of you will interfere."
There were no rules in the Hunger Games. It was so much of a given, Cato didn't believe it brooked mentioning. The idea of trying to instill order in an arena of kids brutally slaughtering each other was laughable. Cato had watched each broadcast of the previous Hunger Games obsessively, making mental notes, gauging effectivity, comparing strategies of contenders to his own diaphanous thoughts and making alterations. He was a Career Tribute, a sort of contemporary pagan sacrifice. His family was wealthy and sprawling, and his mother was more than willing to let one of her children slip away to a world where death was not just a horrific possibility but an eventuality. He'd gone above and beyond the call of duty when it came to watching the Hunger Games; he'd pored over them with a sort of burning fixation that was nothing more noble than bloodthirst, and he'd seen some awful things. Tributes being ripped limb from limb by wild animals, burned alive, shot through the head with an arrow, their brains splattering on the ground around them. The Capitol had lapped it up and begged for more. He wondered just what they'd make of what he had in mind for Katniss.
The fire smoked proudly, arrogantly. What was the point of hiding? He'd killed Thresh earlier that day, and Peeta was dying somewhere in the woods. The red-headed tribute had sprinted off in the opposite direction, and she wasn't a concern. He ate the food he'd taken from Katniss' pack and watched intently her from where she lay beyond the bed of burning embers.
Filthy bitch.
Katniss wouldn't have cried even if she didn't have a rag stuffed in her mouth. Cato had apprently decided that physical torment simply wasn't enough, and had left her, bound, on the ground for quite some time, allowing her and her imminent demise to become acquainted. Fear was in her toes and fingers - or was that a loss of blood circulation? - and formed an icy pit in her stomach. He wouldn't make it quick. She was sure of that.
She watched him dully, thinking of Peeta and the small orange backpack around her wrist. She wondered if he'd sleep through the canon shot, if he'd die before her name lit up the night sky. She almost hoped he would. Despite everything, the maddening idea that he could have been right all along infuriated her. Cato had knocked her out at the Cornucopia that morning before he dealt with Thresh, and she had awoken hogtied and on the ground, watching him eat her precious rations with a boiling hatred.
He finished the last of the berries and wiped the back of his mouth with his hand.
"It's just you and me, Katniss."
She watched him, thinking that it was ludicrous to deliver a last monologue to his victim, pandering to the sponsors so late in the game. She thought about Prim. Mother. Gale. Her heart sank, and for the first time she wanted to weep.
"I've been thinking."
She shut her eyes.
"I think death is too good for you, you filthy slut."
Her eyes rammed open, unable to take such an insult. She'd been called many things in her lifetime, but never - never - a slut. Cato grinned at her, and stood up, moving towards her with an easy swagger she hated immediately, more than anything in the world. He crouched down next to her, his breath hot and fetid in her ear.
"You know they let that boy eat the heart of one of his kills before they stopped him the next time."
Katniss was barely listening, but if she had been, she would have been bewildered. She saw a silver flash of steel and prayed for a quick end, but even as it moved toward her she felt nothing. Then a rip. And another. She realized a second too late that he had cut her tunic off of her, and had straddled her midsection, pressing her arms painfully into her back, as he did the same to her leggings. She conceived momentarily that he might be trying something sexual - but that was abominable. A tribute would only do such a thing if they were sure they would lose and never have to face a society that had seen their actions.
And then he was yanking her upwards, shoving her face into the ground, and she made a muffled noise of protest.
"Oh - I almost forgot."
He took the rag out of her mouth and she gasped for air, focusing on breathing.
"The best part is always the screams."
She said nothing. There was nothing to say. Her hips were thrust upward, her face mashed into the dirt on one side. She was still struggling for breath. Cato hummed lightly as his fingers skimmed the sliver of pinkness that could be seen between her thighs, and her protests began.
"What are you doing?" she shrieked. "Just kill me, you sick bastard! Just stick that fucking knife into my heart!"
"Keep talking like that," he said with a sort of sadistic glee, pulling his trousers down, finding himself already hardened with the thought of her terror, her intimacy with death. He was big, and he knew it - uncomfortably so. It only made his infrequent forcings more pleasurable. He didn't stop, hesitate for her comfort. She was a virgin, of course. That much was obvious. And he was in her.
Katniss screamed and gasped and felt that she was being split in two. She wriggled on the dirt, her sensitive breasts scraping the rough terrain.
"Stop," she said hoarsely, as he slowly pulled out, her eyes brimming with tears for the first time. "Please, please, just kill me, don't - "
Cato slammed back into her again and she shrieked, awfully, her tears making mud of the dust before her, as he began to slam in and out of the tight, velvety entrance, lubricated by her virginal blood. There would have been a certain art to sacrificing the virgin, but Cato didn't care. He fucked her ruthlessly, her screams and condemnations and pleading begging like music to his sick ears, driving her into the mud until they tapered off into whimpers and groans and broken little plights for mercy. Finally, with a glorious tightening of his testicles, he came into her, leaving her filthy in the deepest way possible. He pulled himself back into his trousers, and flipped her over, staring down her dirty, weeping face. He'd broken her, the crafty skank. She would have taken death with grace, but he wasn't willing to watch her go with some level of dignity. He was an artist at such things.
"You fucking loved that, didn't you," he taunted, leaning in close and reaching down to roughly carress her folds. The actual sex was only painful, but her body reacted to the nerve stimulation. A tiny gasp moved through her parted, swollen lips, and within her mind she was frantic with disbelief, trying to hold down the small noises he elicited from her, the pleasure that she couldn't escape and was even worse than pain: her own body was betraying her. He manipulated her until she, too, was brought to orgasm, shrieking and crying and begging for an end.
His fingers slick with the essence of her, Cato decided that it wouldn't do to have a thing ended without being totally thorough.
"It's coming," he said almost kindly, straddling her midsection again, his penis bobbing almost comically before her face. "You have to earn death, Katniss, like you have to earn everything." He cupped the back of her skull and pushed himself between her lips roughly - looking back he saw why this had been a poor idea; she was a fighter, after all, not a passive slip of a thing like his past conquests. After the initial shock of being forced to preform fellatio moved past her, she bit down on him harshly. Cato let out a roar of indignation, withdrew himself, and backhanded her so hard he was afraid he had snapped her neck for a moment.
He was full of hatred and the prolific imminence of revenge. He pinched her nipples hard and she did not move, her face turned aside, eyes shut. He worried once more that she was dead, then noted the subtle rising and falling of her chest. Confident once more, he returned her to her previous position on her knees. There was no clever tag-line as he dipped once more into her, unable to keep himself from groaning with delight at the tight wetness of her, but didn't allow himself to be distracted. He moistened a finger and slipped it into her anus, and she stirred feebly at this, mumbling a protest, until he added another, and her halfhearted moans became breathy gasps of pain as he violated her roughly, withdrawing himself only for a moment until he jammed his erection into her anus. She screamed, a bloodcurdling sound that brought the birds from the trees. The mockingjays reported her pleads for mercy and his grunts of pleasure. 'Take it, slut,' one particularly dynamic fellow sang out into the afternoon sun.
She was near unconciousness when he was finished, and Cato was filled with a sense of peace. The fingers that trailed over her jawbone were almost tender.
"You were a good adversary, you little bitch, but you fuck and die in the dirt like the pig that you are," he said with something disturbingly like fondness. He stood, pulled a knife out of his belt, and drove it through her heart.
She died with a look that was nearly relief.