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"Who did this?" Arthur said quietly, green eyes glinting, as he stared at the two North Americans. He pointed at the shattered glass on the grass and then at the broken window above it where a baseball had flown through moments ago and disrupted his evening reading and cup of tea.
Alfred was snickering, trying to smother his laughter with a hand over his mouth, but his shoulders still trembled with mirth. Matthew wasn't even trying to hide his laughter, giggling under his breath, cheeks pink, as he fidgeted guiltily, violet eyes glancing at Arthur now and again.
"Sorry." He said, almost sounding contrite, but the glimmer remained in his eyes and his brother broke out into slightly terrified, hysterical laughter and the corners of his lips almost twitched and Arthur's eyes narrowed.
Both boys knew better than to test the Englishman's patience. Lessons of their childhood and memories of corporal punishments still felt fresh against their backs and rears despite the decades and they both knew Arthur was still as talented with a birch as he was in his empire days. But, the two blonds were a little drunk, alcohol filling their cheeks with pink, and they couldn't hide the giggles even though they knew they should be terrified.
"I raised you better than this." Arthur continued silkily, crossing his arms. He stared hard at the Canadian. "Especially you, Matthew."
Matthew's lips twitched. "If I break windows all the time, will you remember my name more?" He swayed and Alfred laughed, now on the grass of the lawn. Matthew tried to look repentant but there was a darkness in his eyes and the Englishman scowled.
Arthur stepped forward, grabbing Matthew by the ear and hauling Alfred up by his collar. He proceeded to drag both shitfaced boys into the house, depositing Alfred onto the couch to sleep off his drunkenness.
"Hey." Matthew protested, reaching out for his brother and tripping over his feet. "I called the couch." He whined, twisting, but Arthur just ignored him. "I'll pay for the window, Arthur." The blond added, giving the Englishman a pleading look, violet eyes a little damp and wide and soft.
But Arthur stood firm. "I've always been a little more lenient with you, boy." He said coldly. And it was true. Matthew tended to burst into tears as a child and even when he wasn't a child and the Englishman had been loathe to strike him again once the sniffling began. And though Matthew wasn't a bad, troublesome child and he did grow into a sweet, unassuming young man, it remained that Matthew could become very mean and a little cavalier when drunk. He had a sharp tongue and tended to be passive-aggressive about apologies especially when he thought that they were unneeded.
Arthur knew that most of Matthew's early lessons, however, came from Francis and the Frenchman had a penchant for crocodile tears and games.
He pushed Matthew into his bedroom.
Matthew grumbled and stumbled, straightening up and looking very upset. "I said I'd pay for it, Arthur." He repeated, rubbing at his eyes. "I'm sorry." He said emphatically. Then his expression turned mischievous and he added, "We ruined your night, didn't we? Can't I make it up to you?" The blond smiled, tilting his head with an attractive little flick.
It might've worked better if Francis hadn't tried the same thing every time Arthur found him lurking in his rose bushes.
Though Matthew had a less sleazy air to him and no disgusting stubble so the effect was much nicer but Arthur was displeased. He was angry, about the window, of course. But his displeasure was a much worse thing. It went much deeper.
"Both you and your brother have no respect for others." He began slowly, unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling up his sleeves. "I said to be careful. The two of you become so competitive and there isn't enough space for when you two try to out-do each other with fast pitches and what have you." He looked around his wrist to glance at Matthew. "If not my window, then the neighbor's. I'm terribly disappointed, Matthew. I expected so much better. But it seems that you're just like Alfred. No thought for consequences. Willing to buy your way out of responsibility. I was too soft on you, wasn't I?" He sighed and went over to his desk, pulling the chair out and sitting down. "Drop your trousers and come here."
Matthew gave him a horrified look, understanding dawning in his eyes. And he shook his head. "I'm an independent nation." He shook his head again. "You can't just spank me, Arthur. You can't."
Arthur gave him an unimpressed look. "I'm going to count to three, love."
If anything, Matthew looked more furious. And the alcohol from earlier had freed his tongue. "This is ridiculous. You're trying to do some power trip thing and...no, just no. I'm leaving."
"So you're going to run from responsibility as well?" Arthur said lightly. "By all means, go. Don't accept that you made a mistake."
"I apologized--"
"Even your brother told the truth about that cherry tree. He received twenty. Honesty saved him from thirty. He could've just walked out as well but he stayed and received his punishment."
And Matthew's face flushed darker, hands curling into fists. Alfred had been a few years from independence and had gone through a phase of maturity where he stopped avoiding punishments and had even taken a few meant for Matthew out of some twisted sense of heroism.
To this day Alfred swears he accidently shot Arthur's prized stallion.
(Matthew had been curious about firearms and didn't realize the horse was out of the stable.)
And Arthur knew perhaps it was unfair but he couldn't stop the sense of victory when Matthew grudgingly went to his jeans and unbuttoned them, sliding them off his long legs and seemed to consider kicking them off, but thought better of it and picked them up, folding them, and placing them on the bed. And then he walked over to Arthur, in only his plaid shirt and white boxers and white socks and Arthur patted his thigh and the blond reluctantly took the position, arms crossed on Arthur's thigh, his pelvis pressed on the other and his rear in the air, legs crossed at the ankle. He was blushing, most likely from shame on top of the intoxication and Arthur could tell he was tense.
"How many do you think you deserve?" Arthur asked quietly, resting his hand against the other's upper thigh. His muscle twitched under his palm, tensing further.
Matthew took a deep shuddering breath, golden hair shielding his face. He didn’t answer.
“Love.” Arthur said sternly, palm against warm skin, this thumb brushing the twitch of Matthew’s muscle. “You are only going to make this more difficult.”
Matthew still didn’t respond immediately. Arthur frowned.
The first strike caught Matthew off guard. He yelped, entire body seizing up. The slap left a nice, pink tint to his upper thigh and Arthur tilted his head, quietly noting that Matthew did have quite lovely skin that reddened just perfectly.
…He might enjoy this more than he should.
It wasn’t a power trip, truly. But even Arthur couldn’t deny that there was something heady to having the leggy, independent nation bent over him for the first time in decades and glancing at him over his shoulder, violent eyes still disbelieving that Arthur actually spanked him.
The Englishman, against his better judgment, soothed the sting with a broad palm. “Don’t test me, Matthew.” He said quietly. “If you are going to act like a child, I will treat you like one. Now, I ask again, how many do you think you deserve?”
And Matthew’s lips twisted stubbornly for a second before he seemed to deflate, looking away. “Twenty.” He finally said, lowly.
“Only twenty?” Arthur hummed, still rubbing away the slight pain. “Perhaps if you were pre-Confederation.”
“Arthur.” Whining.
Thwack.
This time Matthew bit back a yelp, slowly realizing that Arthur was painfully serious.
Perhaps if Matthew was pre-Confederation, Arthur would swat him one more time and set the boy straight on his feet and wipe away his tears and kiss his forehead and send him to bed without dessert. But Matthew wasn’t. He had fought in wars, had his own internal struggles, and still had to delicately balance two conflicting histories and groups. He had held his own and Arthur was proud of what his little brother had accomplished but he didn’t like the attitude he cultivated from living on his own for so long.
It was too much like Francis and too much like Alfred and Matthew, though perhaps not overtly, did think he could get away with quite a bit because he had an alarming tendency to become invisible and a guileless smile that led people astray.
But Arthur remembered the child that never quite took him seriously or liked him who stubbornly clung to his French and his native roots even when Arthur flooded him with his own people.
“I’m waiting Matthew.”
“Thirty?”
“Are you asking or telling?”
“Telling.” Matthew said quickly, stiffening.
Arthur thought for a moment. “Then off with these.” He tugged the elastic of Matthew’s boxer briefs. When the blond protested, he added, “Or you can have fifty.”
“You just want to see my ass.” Matthew muttered.
“Darling, I already saw it when you and Alfred decided to race down the hotel hallway starkers earlier this evening. Why else did I drag you both here? Of course, had I known you would break my window—“
“Okay, okay.” Matthew muttered, reaching back and tugging down his boxer briefs. Arthur assisted him by dragging them all the way off and letting them slip down to Matthew’s ankles.
“This is for your own good.” Arthur said, earning a snort from Matthew. The sandy-haired man frowned. “And you will count and for every wriggle or noise other than counting, I will add another strike.”
Matthew muttered something like ‘perverted old bastard’ so instead of giving him a few easy, warm-up smacks, the older nation’s frown deepened and he raised his hand and brought it down firmly against the bottom curve of Matthew’s rear.
“O-one!” The northern nation gasped, stumbling over the word, caught off guard by the sharp, sudden sting.
The next strike was delivered with the same steady hand to his left cheek. Arthur alternated between upper thighs and cheeks, going left to right and leaving pale skin a rosy pink that, as the barrage of smacks continued without leniency, grew redder and more crimson and the skin felt hot under Arthur’s palm.
By twenty, Matthew was crying, his voice hushed as he choked out the number, his tears wet on his cheeks and soaking Arthur’s thigh.
And it was terrible but Arthur was more than a little aroused by the way the blond was helplessly squirming in his lap now. He had probably added another twenty blows because of the tears but Arthur had stopped keeping track because arousing little whimpers kept dropping from Matthew’s parted mouth and the blond had stopped giving him miserable glances and was just accepting the punishment as it was given.
Long before now, Arthur would’ve given in to the other’s silent tears and let him leave to lick his wounds but, as stated, he was more than a little aroused and even his anger and displeasure at the broken window was being replaced with anger and displeasure at the fact that Matthew would think he was terrible—as he had when he was a child before Arthur loosened his hold enough to let the boy breathe—and that how much of these tears were real and how much of them were lies.
And Matthew’s rear was bright red now and they were on twenty-five and, surprisingly, the quiet sobbing had stopped and when Arthur brought his hand down the twenty-sixth time, Matthew moaned softly, haltingly.
Arthur didn’t say anything, green eyes widening briefly before narrowing. There was a downright predatory glint in their depths that was only strengthened by the embarrassed silence that overcame Matthew. The blond lay there, holding himself taut, barely breathing.
“How many was that?” Arthur asked, voice low. His palm hovered over the other’s red rear and Matthew’s buttocks quivered.
“Twenty-six.” Matthew answered, voice thick.
And the Englishman decided to show the other some mercy and didn’t comment on the moan. Really, the sound was still tangled in the air and he bottled it away for some late, lonely night months from now.
Arthur laid another hard slap across his right cheek and Matthew cringed, gritting out “twenty-seven”. Strikes twenty-eight and twenty-nine passed without much problem and Arthur was fairly certain that Matthew would have a problem sitting during the meeting tomorrow afternoon.
And then the northern nation practically writhed in his lap on the thirtieth strike and Arthur became very aware that Matthew was hard and his prick was pressed against the unforgiving fabric of Arthur’s trousers and the blond was practically panting out the number.
And though Arthur was half-hard himself, he didn’t comment on it immediately. Instead he touched Matthew’s backside experimentally, earning a quiet hiss. The flesh was hot under his fingertips in contrast to the rest of the nation’s pale, cool skin and Arthur, glorious douchebag he is, skirted the glowing edges of the other’s rear with just a little bit of pressure, admiring his handiwork and the way Matthew gasped, thighs parting under his touch. His erection still pressed into Arthur. Matthew, however, was unwilling to stand up or speak.
Of course, he was probably also in a fair amount of pain.
“It’s alright, love.” Arthur said, kindly enough. “It happens. Just give yourself a minute and we’ll take care of this.” And he patted Matthew’s rump lightly.
“Oh, fuck you, Arthur.” Matthew said sharply, finally looking back at Arthur, cheeks flush with humiliation and eyes still wet and dark. “You’ve embarrassed me enough for the night, haven’t you?” And there’s a tremble to his voice and his earlier buzz of intoxication must’ve disappeared and now its just residual anger and hurt fed by the false courage of cheap beer and Arthur’s best scotch.
He pushed himself up, using Arthur’s thigh as leverage, his elbows shaking. “I don’t need you to baby me or punish me.” Then, under his breath, “Not that you ever did.”
And Arthur was at the edge of his rope and, with an elbow to the top of Matthew’s spine, he held the boy in place and placed a warning hand on the curve of his ass. “Didn’t I tell you to never mumble?” He barked. “Speak up, boy.”
But Matthew looked away, becoming recalcitrant and Arthur sighed heavily and released him.
And, quickly, Matthew began to push up.
But in the process, his elbow bumped against Arthur’s hardness and he stilled, balanced by his stomach against Arthur’s knee and one hand on the other.
“I knew it.” He said quietly, iridescent eyes gleaming. He shifted, straddling Arthur, moving to press curious fingers against the other’s bulge. “You get off on this.”
Arthur sputtered at his former colony’s forwardness and dragged his fingers away. “Don’t sound so pleased. I’ve never gotten off on having my arse beaten.” His scowl turned into a nasty smile, as he added. “Of course, you’ve always been unattractively French and Francis—that derelict—was always a masochist in bed.”
Matthew glared. Arthur continued, gently brushing curls out of Matthew’s face and tweaking the single errant one that refused to lie still.
“Tell, Matthew. How else are you similar to your frère?” Arthur asked. He would put this brat in his place. And suddenly its not 2011 but 1837 and its Suez all over again and Matthew has taken all Arthur has to give and given back loyalty in spades but it’d be nice if for once those violet eyes held some adoration. His hand tangled in Matthew’s hair and he pulled, the other’s head jerking back and revealing the white length of his throat and Arthur kissed the revealed skin and murmured, “Do you like this?” And he emphasized it with another harsh tug of hair and Matthew’s face flooded with red, a raggedy moan falling from his lips.
And its not right because Matthew is still drunk but he’s clearly in control and he clearly enjoys it because, if anything, his prick is still hard and Arthur would be damned if he said he wasn’t enjoying this as much.
“Clearly you’ve inherited some of his more unsavory qualities. I did try my best, too. Perhaps I didn’t discipline you enough.” He gave the other a crooked smile, releasing his hair. “I suppose another twenty strikes are in order.”
Matthew looked at him before glancing down at the bulge in his trousers. And then he looked up, violet eyes bright. “Or you could punish me some other way?”
Arthur hummed. “Perhaps. Since its not a punishment if you enjoy it.” And he swatted the other’s still red rear and Matthew squirmed. But, pausing, he cupped the reddened flesh with one hand and, thoughtfully, said, “I suppose the only the way a whore can be taught is with his body. It worked with Francis.”
Matthew’s lips twisted into a scowl. “Stop talking about my brother that way. He may not have wanted me but at least he pretended that he did.” He said bitterly.
Oh.
For fuck’s sake.
“I did more for you than he ever could.” Arthur hissed, pulling the boy forward by the collar of his plaid shirt. “You could show some gratitude.”
“I could be taught to show some gratitude.” Matthew whispered, fluidly dragging Arthur’s attention away, fingertips finding Arthur’s erection and pressing downward until his palm was flush with the other’s bulge and until Arthur’s anger eased a little. “Unless you think I can’t be taught this way?”
“Get on your knees.” Arthur commanded.
And he may have caught the tiniest victorious smirk traipse across the blond’s face as he scrambled to his knees, wincing when his heels bumped into his sore backside. His white boxer briefs were tangled around his ankle, hanging off, and when Arthur made a snide comment about him looking wanton, Matthew just snickered and didn’t even look back.
“Don’t you find it hot?” Matthew asked innocently, deft fingers going for Arthur’s zipper. “Your sweet, quiet forgotten colony in such a rush to suck your cock that he doesn’t care that his underwear is bunched around his foot.” He breathed out, tugging down Arthur’s trousers and looking up with a coquettish smile and flutter of his eyelashes.
“I think you give yourself too much credit.” Arthur said dryly, voice raspy nonetheless because that single article of clothing was distracting but at the same time it added a greater sense of debauchery to the already debauched moment.
Matthew laughed lightly before he mouthed the swell of Arthur’s erection through thin cotton briefs, laving the bulge and sucking at the tip, the heat of his tongue unbearable through the fabric.
Arthur swore, simultaneously hating and loving the playful way Matthew was lapping at his covered erection. While the blond was busy, Arthur grabbed his shirt and pulled him up and Matthew went without fuss, his nose pressed against the other’s stomach as Arthur unbuttoned the shirt and, when that failed, tore it open, buttons scattering.
Matthew made a noise of protest but Arthur ignored it in favor of sliding the red and black plaid off his shoulders, seeing the flex of muscle under creamy skin and the push of his shoulder blades laid bare to his gaze. He dragged his nails up his spine and stopped at Matthew’s neck, pressing the boy further into his erection and Matthew responded by sharply nipping him.
“Arthur.” Matthew moaned, a little petulant and mostly needy. “I want you in my mouth.”
“Of course you do.” Arthur’s voice was husky and he leaned back, tipped Matthew’s head up with one finger under his chin. He smirked at the younger nation and leaned down to kiss him once and then again on lips that were most likely bitten during the punishment, the taste of alcohol still fresh. Before pulling away, he whispered, breath warm against Matthew’s lips, “Just watch your teeth.”
Then, pleasantly, Matthew gave him a lazy smile and closed the miniscule distance between them and pressed his lips against Arthur’s, his hands gripping Arthur’s thighs in contrast to the sweet kiss.
When he pulled away, almost shyly, Arthur followed him, eyes half-lidded. “Minx.” He whispered and Matthew smiled and gave him another small, languid peck at the corner of his lips before pulling away completely and pulled down Arthur’s underwear, freeing the heavy erection and earning a pleased hiss.
Matthew tilted his head slightly, staring at Arthur’s cock, finally earning a “I didn’t think you needed any guidance.” The blond laughed, hiccuping a little, as he batted at the spongy head with one spindly finger.
“I don’t.” He said quietly. “I just always assumed you were overcompensating for something.” He prodded at the precum beading at the slit, smearing wetness around the head before pulling his finger away and slipping just the tip into his mouth. “But you’re just naturally a giant dick.” He smirked around his finger, pulling it out with a pop, spreading wetness across his lower lip.
Arthur scowled down at the blond who was giggling at his own private joke. He carded his fingers through golden ringlets and tightened his grip, shoving Matthew’s face forward so his erection bumped against the other’s cheek and left a shining trail of precum across his still-pink skin. With his free hand, he took hold of his cock by the base and pressed the cockhead against Matthew’s lips. When the blond opened his mouth, willingly, he moved it across the seam of his lips, Matthew’s tongue slipping out to wet it just before it moved too far out of reach, up to the corner of his lips and to his cheek, smearing precum across the other’s face.
“Arthur.” Matthew breathed out, tugging at his pant’s leg. “That’s weird. Stop it.” He couldn’t really turn his face with the other gripping his hair and pulling his head back but he was sulking. “I said—“
And Arthur took advantage of the other’s open mouth by tugging his head forward and dipping his cock between parted lips. Matthew almost gagged at the sudden intrusion but regrouped immediately and began to suck.
And Arthur, though he was more than happy with the warmth of Matthew’s mouth, forced his head back and off his cock, smirking at the way the other whimpered and gave him a dark look. The sound combined with the lust in eyes darkened to plum went straight to his groin. He then spoke. “You didn’t say please earlier.”
Matthew gave him a disbelieving look. “I have to say please to give you a blow job?”
“Mm. And thank you.” Arthur grinned, roguish and dark. “We must mind our manners.”
“I could just leave.” Matthew said, off-handedly.
“Perhaps. But that’s not very sporting, is it love?” The Englishman reminded. Then he pressed his loafer between the other’s knees and casually forced them apart and prodded lightly at Matthew’s erection with the toe of his shoe. “Besides, you’re enjoying this. You’re practically ruining my carpet.”
Matthew’s jaw tightened. It was true. His erection had yet to abate and, if anything, every tug and subtle snide reminder of his wantonness had him vibrating with want.
It helped that everything about Arthur—from his dilated pupils ringed with jade and the low timbre of his voice to the hardness between his legs—spoke of his desire for Matthew.
Maybe it was because Arthur seemed to barely see him most of the time. Maybe it was because the other never seemed particularly interested in him. Even when he was bad, he didn’t get more than a few spankings whereas Australia and, years earlier, Alfred would come out of Arthur’s study bawling and walking bowlegged while he sat with Kumajiji in a chair and get dirty looks from the punished colonies. He might have been a little jealous, somehow associating behavior with attention and since Arthur tended to notice more when he was naughty…
And maybe he had a thing for powerful, charismatic men and women.
Or maybe it had been a while since he last had sex with anyone.
Whatever it was. It made Matthew whisper, “Please.”
And Arthur is actually very surprised because he expected the younger nation to storm out and leave Arthur to his hand and he feels a little guilty but Matthew is giving him a pleading look and he relents, easing his grip on the other’s locks and smoothing out the frazzled strands, choking back a groan when Matthew dips his head and begins to suckle his cockhead, thin lips pursed.
When Matthew begins to draw his fingers up the length of Arthur’s cock and swirls his tongue around the head, Arthur groans, sliding lower in the chair and spreading his thighs further so Matthew can have more room.
Matthew takes him deeper, making obscene sucking noises, a slurp thrown in here and there because Arthur twitches at the messy sound, as he laps the underside of Arthur’s cock, tracing the long vein, and his lips are stretched and red and Arthur has no idea if there is more room in the boy’s mouth because it feels like the hot, wet, cavern is sucking him in deeper and closing in on him and he can’t help but buck his hips and when Matthew chokes in surprise, Arthur groans.
Matthew’s eyes roll up to glance at him and, something sparking in their depths, he relaxes his throat, taking the Englishman deeper, licking the underside and whatever he can’t reach with his tongue, he’s touching with his fingers, drifting over the shaft and pausing to fondle Arthur’s sac.
When he pulls away for a breath, his lips are bruised and dark red and pretty and he licks at them, mouth wet with saliva and precum and he takes another breath and ducks his head again, peppering kisses down Arthur’s prick and mouthing at the underside and sucking and kissing the sack. He kisses and licks and leaves the entire length laved with saliva, presses hard against the slit that is dribbling precum down the purpling head and at foreskin, and when he pulls away, he leisurely gives it a few pumps after his grip slips once and twice, spit and precum lubricating the way and making a right mess of everything.
And then the blond, catching Arthur’s eye—not that it was difficult because the Englishman was absolutely mesmerized—purposely lifts up his hand, wicked lips sucking at his fingers, licking the pads and the dips between, moaning around his digits and wiping away the slick mixture with little peeks of his tongue.
“Am I doing it right, sir?” He asks, albeit mockingly, and Arthur smiles even as he is pulling the boy up by his shirt (that is still hanging loosely on his arms) and smacks his rear again, receiving a surprised and pained yelp.
“Have you already forgotten, pet?” Arthur asked, sweetly.
Matthew looked, at least, appropriately contrite. “Sorry.”
With a pleased nod, Arthur released him and cupped the back of his head, forcing it downwards. “Now get on with it.”
“Please and thank you.” Matthew muttered before taking Arthur into his mouth again.
Arthur cursed and tangled his fingers into the other’s silky hair, pulling it out of the way so he could see the obscene way Matthew’s sucked him, and pressed him down further, forcing him to take him deeper and Matthew moaned and allowed himself to be pushed, swallowing more of Arthur, his tongue working against the warm hardness. Pausing only when the blond moaned around his cock, vibrations making Arthur groan in lust, the Englishman began to shove him further down, faster.
Arthur murmured encouraging phrases and obscene words that went unheard but were definitely felt because Matthew was thrumming under his touch and moaning low and desperate, as he bobbed up and down on Arthur’s cock, open-mouthed, saliva and precum dripping from his lips even as he continued to drag his tongue down the shaft with each push and pull.
And Arthur is curling his fingers in the other’s hair, his breath coming faster and faster, and he finally just shoves Matthew down, further than the blond would’ve gone on his own, and he hears a gag, a flutter of muscle around his cock, and he’d be more concerned but he’s coming with a sharp moan mixed with Matthew’s name, head tipping back and fingers falling lax as his hips jerk, body shuddering.
Matthew lifts his head with a soft cough, violet eyes bleary and cum dripping from the corner of his mouth and escaping down his chin. He looks up at Arthur, blushing, semen and spit on his mouth and the Englishman, still riding the haze of his orgasm, smiles at him and wipes the mess off of Matthew’s lips with two fingers and then presses them against bruised, swollen lips. Matthew’s lips quirk upwards and he lets Arthur slide his fingers into his mouth, sucking them lightly, eyes fluttering shut, and Arthur groans at the filthy display because Matthew is still swallowing and taking advantage of the digits by lapping at them.
Arthur, reluctantly, pulls out his fingers, tracing Matthew’s swollen lips while doing so.
“And what do we say?” He asked, hoarsely, limbs loose and lax still.
“Thank you.” Matthew is smiling a satisfied little smile. A beat, then, “Have I shown my gratitude now, Arthur? Have I learned my lesson? Because I am sorry.” He even rested his chin on the other’s thigh, all loose lines and softness and honey-tinged whispers. And it’s more affection than he’s shown Arthur before and it’s pleasant.
But he’s still being a little shite.
And Arthur realizes the boy climaxed at some point too, his prick now limp between his thighs and a smear of semen on his inner thigh where he must’ve wiped it off his hand. His hand is still sticky with his own climax.
“Oh you little bastard.” Arthur murmured, green eyes flicking back to Matthew’s unrepentant face.