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"Oh là là, je suis carrément fatigué ! Arthur, mon cœur, tu es où ?"
Arthur glanced up from his book with a sigh, "The living room."
His husband entered in a flurry of energy, tossing aside shoes and bags and a coat and collapsing beside Arthur on the couch. He'd been drinking; Arthur could smell the wine on him, mixing with the sweet scent of his shampoo. His hair tickled Arthur's chin as he threw an arm over his waist, snuggling closer as if to burrow inside of him.
"You're in a good mood," Arthur smirked, bringing a hand up to run through Francis' hair.
"That's because I'm home with you," Francis sighed happily, trailing a finger over Arthur's chest and stomach, tracing swirling patterns. He tilted his head up, scattering kisses over Arthur's jaw, neck, cheek, anywhere he could reach, and Arthur bit back a laugh as his beard tickled his skin.
"Did you go drinking without me, you ass?" he tried to put heat in his voice, but failed miserably as Francis continued to ply him with kisses, drunken hands wandering over him curiously, as if he didn't know every inch of his body by heart. The man always got like this when he was drunk, cuddly and clingy; there had been more than a few instances of Francis getting absolutely wasted and crying when Arthur got up from their booth to use the restroom.
"Just with Toni and Gil," Francis pulled back, eyes wide and earnest, "I promise, cher."
"I know, I know," Arthur assured him. He wrapped his arms around Francis' waist, pulling him into his lap and burying his face in his neck. He inhaled deeply, shivering as Francis' wandering hands ran through his hair, scratching his scalp lightly along the way, "You are absolutely hammered, aren't you. You didn't drive, did you?"
Francis shook his head, "Ludwig came to pick Gil up, and Gil sweet-talked him into giving us all a ride home…"
He trailed off, and Arthur glanced up. Francis met his eye with a familiar look, adoring and desperate and hungry all at once. Warm, soft hands trailed up Arthur's neck, slow and indulgent, before cradling Arthur's face in his hands. Their lips met as if gravity was pulling them together, and then Francis was kissing him fiercely. Arthur made an indescribable noise, almost a groan, fingers tangling in the fabric of his husband's shirt, the silk cool and slippery in his grasp.
Francis' lips slid from his and down his neck, kissing a trail to the collar of his button-down, and, with a noise of impatience, he began to undo the buttons. Arthur let him, head tilted back against the couch, feeling flushed and hot, "I thought you said you were tired."
Francis didn't even deign to reply, drunken fingers trying desperately to get Arthur's shirt off, but he really was completely wasted. As amusing as it was to watch him struggle and get progressively more frustrated, Arthur took pity on him this time and pushed his hands away to do it himself. Once his shirt was open, hanging off his shoulders, Francis sat back, eyes trailing over Arthur's torso. He always did this, always took a moment to just sit back and look. Arthur didn't understand it—he figured he wasn't really all that much to look at—but Francis seemed to like it, and he had no good reason to tell him not to.
"Oh, tu es beau," Francis whispered eventually, dipping his head down to the hollow of Arthur's neck. Arthur whimpered as he licked and sucked at the skin there, biting down in the way he knew drove Arthur mad.
"Shit," he breathed, pulling Francis' head up for another bruising kiss before pushing him away again, "Take your shirt off."
Francis was happy to comply, and then their mouths connected again. Arthur didn't think he'd ever get tired of kissing Francis. His husband could be obnoxious, egotistical, and a real arrogant twat that managed to find every single one of Arthur's nerves and fucking tap dance on them…but even at Arthur's most annoyed, Francis could always melt him with a kiss.
He opened his eyes as Francis slid off his lap and onto the floor, gently nudging his knees apart, and fuck if Arthur wasn't hard before, he definitely was then as Francis looked up at him through his lashes, cheeks flushed with wine and arousal, lips swollen and red from kissing. Arthur watched, open-mouthed and panting, as Francis undid the button of Arthur's trousers, pulled down the zipper ever so slowly, and pulled his cock free. A whimper escaped him as Francis stroked him slowly, never breaking eye contact.
"Francis," Arthur whispered, breathless, "Please."
That was all the invitation Francis needed, finally tearing his gaze from Arthur and taking him into his mouth.
"Oh, oh shit," Arthur groaned, hand going to rest in Francis' hair, not pushing, nor pulling, but just holding onto him. Francis bobbed his head up and down, sending electric pleasure racing down Arthur's spine. He shivered, fist tightening in Francis' hair, and the moan he got in response sent another wave of pleasure through him.
"You feel so good," Arthur moaned, "So, so—nngh! Francis!"
In one swift motion, Francis had taken him all the way, sucking and running his tongue along the underside of Arthur's cock. Occasionally, his teeth would scrape against his skin and Arthur's back would arch, thrusting his hips into Francis' mouth. Francis took it with ease, and Arthur's moans rose higher and higher.
"Fuck, Francis, I—oh fuck—I'm close." he threw his arm over his eyes, hiding the tears of pleasure that were prickling there. The other hand held Francis' by the hair, thrusting into his mouth erratically as he came racing towards his orgasm. Arthur felt just as drunk on pleasure as Francis was on wine as he was brought, sobbing and gasping, towards release.
He shuddered as he came, spilling down Francis' throat, a stream of curses spilling from his lips as he came down. Francis sucked him through the crest and fall of his orgasm, then pulled off and leaned his head on the inside of Arthur's thigh, gasping for air.
"You're amazing," Arthur whispered, leaning forward and tilting Francis' chin up for a kiss. He could taste himself on his husband's tongue.
"Come here," he breathed, pulling Francis onto the couch and pushing him down. Francis was smiling stupidly, with a look filled with so much pure adoration it was nearly unbearable.
"I love you," he said, and Arthur rolled his eyes.
"Save it until I'm done sucking you off," he scowled, fumbling with Francis' jeans and pulling them off his hips. There was a wet spot in his boxers from precum, and when Arthur pulled the garment aside, his cock was so red and swollen it looked like it had to hurt.
He wrapped his lips around the tip, drinking in the whine that ripped from Francis' mouth. He'd always been the louder of the two of them, not that either man was particularly quiet. That was just how Francis had always been, showy and unabashed, and it was no different when Arthur was kneeling on the couch sucking him off.
A steady stream of moans and whines filled the air as Arthur bobbed his head up and down, taking what he couldn't get in his mouth into his hand and stroking. It wasn't long until Francis was teetering on the edge of his orgasm; he was drunk, and already close to begin with, and Arthur figured that, after years of being together, he'd gotten quite good at giving head.
"Oh, Arthur," Francis whimpered, "You're spectacular. You feel so good. I'm—I'm—"
He bucked his hips as he came, babbling an incomprehensible stream of French and English, and Arthur held him in his mouth, stroking him, until he began to whimper with overstimulation.
"Arthur, what on Earth did I do to deserve you?" Francis sighed, but the question really was what had Arthur done to deserve Francis? He looked absolutely radiant, flushed with colour and glowing in the dim light of the lamp Arthur had kept on for his reading. His expression was adoring and so beautiful, and that expression was supposed to be directed at Arthur? It didn't seem real, not all the time. Sometimes, in moments like this, Arthur would feel a little starstruck that of all the people who got to have Francis like this, who got to wake up beside him in the morning, eat whatever meal he'd cooked up for them to try, go for walks with him as the sun set in the evenings just because they could, he'd chosen him.
Arthur didn't know how to put that into words, though, so he just kissed him sweetly and hoped that was enough to show even a fraction of the love he had for him. Francis sighed sleepily, cradling Arthur's face in his hands.
"Read to me?" he whispered. He was definitely still a little drunk, but calmer now, and his eyelids drooped with exhaustion.
"Let's get to bed first. Did you drink enough water while you were out, or do you want a bottle for the morning?" Arthur asked, sitting back and getting to his feet. He helped Francis up as well and, despite Francis' intoxicated state, his husband was quick to pick him up around the waist and begin to walk towards their bedroom.
Instinctively, Arthur clung to him, although he frowned, "You could have just said you didn't want water."
Smirking, Francis tossed him onto the bed and Arthur sputtered indignantly, "Don't just throw me around, you brute!"
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, cœur." He kicked off his pants, glancing at Arthur's, "Are you going to take those off, or are you planning on sleeping in them?"
Arthur glowered, considered if the discomfort of sleeping in trousers was worth the spiteful vidication he'd get from ignoring his husband, then reluctantly pulled his pants off, "I think I liked you better before I gave you head. You were drunker then."
Francis just laughed, damn him, grabbing a book off the bookshelf before settling down beside Arthur. Arthur inspected the title, taking it from his hand, "Pride and Prejudice? Are you planning on falling asleep while I read?"
"Wasn't that the point?" Francis murmured, eyes already closed as he tucked himself into Arthur's side, and Arthur really didn't have the energy to argue. With a sigh, he grabbed his reading glasses off the nightstand and flipped open the book.
"It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife…"