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The Butcher, having Arthur tied down, decides a bloody mess isn't necessary to get him talking. He keeps a toolbag on him when he's on the job, in case he needs to draw out a man's last words.
He pulls a polished silver rod from out the bag, not much longer than his hand, with a flared tip at one end; it looks almost like a coffin nail, but is nowhere near as sharp.
He tucks the rod between his teeth, undoes his prey's trousers. He wants him to squirm a bit, wants him to start guessing what'll happen.
Arthur tells him to stop, then begs him to. Says he'll do anything, just tell him what's going on. The Butcher ignores his pleading, shuts him up with a deep kiss, forcing his tongue into Arthur's mouth. Arthur stops resisting, almost immediately, relaxing into it. When Collins pulls away, Arthur is blushing, panting. Confused, sure, but not unaffected by the gesture. Good. This'll work better if he's hard.
Collins slips the rod between his lips and wets it down with his tongue. A slow confusion creeps across his prey’s face. Maybe there are things he can see, after all? He pulls it out, reaches down and takes Arthur's hardening prick in hand. Arthur’s expression slowly shifts as the rod touches the tip of his cock, nestles into the slit, and slips in. His eyebrows draw together, a mixture of fear and confusion. The way his eyes grow wide, and his mouth hangs open around a wordless scream? That's the look that makes life worth living.
Arthur throws his head back, aims his cries for help to the ceiling. He can do what he wants. No one's gonna hear him from down here. Collins pushes the rod in slowly, watches it stretch his cock open from the inside. "Fine cunt you got here," he tells Arthur. "It's a bit tight to be sure, but I'll fix that for you, don't you worry." He pushes the rod down as far as it'll go and holds it in place with his thumb. "Look how easy you took that down," he says sweetly, "Reckon you'll like the next few even better."
Arthur, rolling his hips, starts begging for his mercy as the rod slides slowly out of him. He offers his cooperation between sniveling breaths. The Butcher leaves him to it, turning his attention back to his tools. He doesn't really care for this part, because it doesn't matter in the grand scheme of things. A man will say anything to spare himself. He wipes down the tool he just used, and takes his time selecting another.
Ah, there, the bumpy one. He hasn't had a chance to use that one in a while.
"Sorry, Lad," Collins says, rising to his feet, "Didn't catch a word of what you said. I'm focused, you know. I wanna do a good job for the man who holds the leash."
Arthur looks up towards him with wide, red-rimmed eyes. Whether he sees the shape of the rod, Collins doesn't know.
"Whatever Larson wants to know, I-"
"Oh you misunderstand what i'm doing here. Larson just wants you broken, said he'll sort through the pieces himself, later." He lines the rod up against Arthur's cheek. "Suck on this, Lad."
Arthur struggles against the ropes holding him down. He's going into a panic. The Butcher puts a stop to that with a lick of the rod across his cheek. In seconds, the skin blooms with a bright red welt. It’s fucking beautiful.
He presses again, this time the tip of the rod to Arthur's lips. "Suck, or it's going in dry."
He watches Arthur take the metal into his mouth, slowly, gets to watch realization dawn in those strange eyes as Arthur's tongue parses out the shape of each oblong segment of it. He pulls it back out as slowly as it went in.
"What do you think, Lad? Will this be what breaks you?" He whispers, leaning in close. When Arthur opens his mouth to answer, Collins taps the silver against his front teeth, making him swear and wince. "Guess we'll see."
“Please. Enough. I can’t do this, I can’t-” he pulls, again, against his restraints. His cock is still hard.
Collins just tuts at him. Arthur was such a challenge during the chase. To think he’d lose that fire once he was caught."You'll want to hold still for this one, believe me." He dips the tip of it into Arthur's slit, letting his prey savor that first little swell of silver that spreads his cock wide open. Then the next.
Oh, but then Arthur starts to sing-- a staccato of high-pitched breathy moans. Collins can't help but smile, he starts humming along, letting each little knot push something new out of Arthur. Once he's taken the whole thing, Butcher stills his hands, lets him sit with it for a moment.
"So, Lad, how's it feel? I've always wondered."
Arthur whimpers. Sucks in a breath. Spits out a defiant “Fuck you,” that loses its bite when his voice cracks midway through.
"Aww. You’re no fun. Maybe a new rhythm'll change your tune."
He grabs the end of the rod and draws it halfway out. The sound Arthur makes is a low, ragged moan, and for once, Butcher is not unaffected by his reaction.
Collins licks his lips, and pushes it back in. "Oh, if you could see the look on your face, love." Collins says softly. "You're a fuckin' anomaly, you know that? You keep finding new ways to surprise me." His pace with the rod increases, and he wonders if Arthur can still feel every bump, or if they all blur together. But by this point, Arthur's not coherent enough for him to ask.
"Suppose we best be wrapping this up, Larson'll be here soon. If you're gonna break for me, Lad, do it now."
Arthur, bless him, obeys spectacularly.
The butcher whistles in awe, taking in the sight of him. Chest heaving, flushed face, painted in his own spend. He'll recall these details later, when he's on his own. "Well, well, aren't you the perfect portrait of a mess," he says, rising to his feet. He wipes his hand on Arthur's face. "Glad you enjoyed yourself, truly. I think I'll leave you like this, for Larson to deal with when he gets here." He reaches down for his kerchief, to finish cleaning up, when a thought strikes him. "You know, since you liked it so much, I figure you should keep this." He tucks the bumpy rod into the rope around Arthur's torso. “If he lets you live, I'm sure you'd make more use of it than me."