TW: Eating disorder/smut yw

You know those evenings when everything is perfect? When you feel completely calm and almost forget about everything in your life that's not perfect? The sort of evening you can't replicate and that is more precious because of that? This was one of those nights. 

The curtains in my living room were drawn and it was hailing against the glass. Ambrose had turned up early-evening with a bag of shopping. I found it stressful to go food shopping and would spend more time looking at the calories on packages than on actually picking up things I wanted, so Ambrose sometimes went for me, then refused to take my money no matter how much I insisted.

There was an empty pan yet to be washed on the stove, and two plates on the table; the television was mumbling away against the wall but neither of us were listening or watching. 

I was straddling Ambrose's lap, our chests pressed together. His hands were resting at the bend where thigh meets hip. We both were hard and our crotches bumped together as I moved. 

We'd been kissing all evening, more or less. Sitting close together, giggling about things that weren't particularly funny - an advert that had a strange voice over - and ignoring everything outside of that room. 

It was the first time I'd been hard in what felt like years. Between the undereating and busy modelling schedule, I'd had little time or energy to give to sex or even masturbation. Ambrose seemed to bring it out of me. 

He hummed against my mouth quietly, mumbled, "Did you mean it?" 

I knew what he was referring to. The marriage proposal. I pressed my tongue into his mouth and kissed him hard, pulled back to ask, "Did you?" 

Kissing him was beautiful.

He moved a hand up my side and over my ribs. I would have panicked about him saying something related to how my body felt but knew he'd sooner die than do anything of the sort. I let myself lean into the touch and to appreciate the way his fingers moved over me. It had been a long time since somebody had touched me like that. 

"I did," he replied, his hand returning to my hips. "I'd marry you tomorrow." 

Pushing down into him and kissing him, I hummed, then moaned softly. "Fuck," I mumbled when we broke apart. "Me too." 

Ambrose's hand slipped under the bottom of my shirt, warm on my skin, and he kissed me again, stroking his fingers over my waist. I didn't want him to pull away; he felt safe. 

The sound of the hail was comforting. It reminded me that I was warm and calm and with someone who made me feel that way. That with him, nothing could hurt me. 

It was almost shameful how hard I was but I didn't care, kept rocking against him while we kissed. 

I felt his hands move between our chests and shifted back slightly so that he had room, hummed as he cupped my crotch. 

"Can I unzip?" He asked, breaking the kiss, and I nodded. Thought about all the pervy photographers who groped me, wanted to say to them, see how easy that was? See how simple it is to ask consent? 

"Yeah, course." 

The zipper was jammed. We laughed as he fought with it. Once he managed to drag it down, he pushed his fingers beneath the waistband of my underwear and found the length of my cock. I moaned as he began to stroke it, tipping my head forward onto his shoulder. 

As if it wasn't obvious, I said breathily, "I'm so desperate."

He chuckled; I knew he would; I loved the sound. "Yeah, no shit. Turn around." 

I did, pulled my jeans over my hips before settling between his legs, back against his chest. He wrapped his free arm around my torso. As he began to move his hand, fingers just the right tightness around my dick, I said, "Let's do it."

In a questioning tone, he hummed. Then caught on to what I was talking about. "Let's do it," he agreed. Stroked his thumb repeatedly over the head. 

My hips jumped. I whined.

Ambrose whispered, "Not gonna last long, are you?" 

"Nope." 

He hummed, unbothered, continued to jerk me. 

"Can you stay tonight?" I asked. Gripped his forearm. His chest was warm behind me and I could feel each inhale-exhale. It's a different type of comfort, being close enough to someone to feel their breaths. 

"I was planning on it." 

I closed my eyes, tipped my head back, moaned loudly. Murmured, "I refuse to sleep - mm - alone now I - mm, shit - know how good you - fuck - how good you spoon me." 

"Have you never been touched before?" Ambrose teased. "And when I sleep alone now I just lie there wondering why the hell you're not also there." 

"I'm gonna..." I trailed off, breath catching. I don't know what Ambrose was doing but it felt like he was somehow stroking me from the inside. 

He kissed my neck. "Come on, darling." 

I whined. No one had called me that prior to him - my mother, maybe, but you get my point - and I found myself wanting to curl up and sleep in his arms every time he said it. "Shit, shit, shit-" 

"Does it feel good, darling?" 

I knew he was teasing me but I didn't care. My hips jerked again and I dug my fingers into his arm, pushed my head back, practically wailed. Came so hard I couldn't breathe. Collapsed, suddenly exhausted, into him. 

Ambrose kissed my neck and wiped his hand on my trousers carelessly. I'd probably complain about the stain in the morning. "Feel better?" He asked.

Breathing a laugh, I nodded. "Fuck, so much better." Then, not about to be all take and no give, asked, "Do you want me to..?" 

Both his arms around my torso, he hummed. "No, I'm content like this. You can pay me back some other time." 

"You betcha." Slumping in his arms, I yawned. It must have been late but I wasn't entirely sure how late. "Better go to bed," I mumbled, though didn't want to move. Falling asleep in the position I was in would no doubt hurt in a few hours. 

Ambrose hummed but stayed still. The said quietly, "I've got a gallery show next week, did I tell you?" 

"You do? That's awesome. Can I come?" 

"Of course." 

I lifted my legs, put my feet on the edge of the coffee table. 

"You're so soft, you know that?" 

"Mhm." I yawned. "Only sometimes." Which was true. You learn to be tough in a job like mine. A job which I hadn't done for some time; I still hadn't turned my phone back on, knew I'd have to at some point. 

I thought, fuck my job, I should quit.