#orm marius

You wake up slowly, as though the morning itself is coaxing you back into the world.

At first, there is only warmth. Soft sheets gathered loosely around your body, the faint lingering heat of sleep, and the quiet hush that belongs only to early hours. 

Then, slowly, awareness seeps in. A pale gold light presses against your closed eyelids, insistent yet tender.

When you open your eyes, the room is bathed in colour.

Sunrise has spilt itself generously through the curtains, painting the bedroom in hues of amber and rose, the kind that seem almost too vivid to belong to winter. The shadows are long and delicate, stretched thin across the floor and the rumpled bed.

For a moment, you simply lie there before you stretch.  It is an instinctive thing, almost unthinking, your body arching slightly as sleep loosens its final hold. Your arm drifts across the mattress beside you, seeking without question the familiar solidity that should be there.

Instead - cold.

Your fingers meet only the faintly chilled sheets, the fabric already losing the memory of his warmth.

You frown, not sharp but rather confused. The absence feels louder than it should, as though the room itself has shifted subtly in his absence.

“Ed?” you murmur, your voice still thick with sleep, barely more than a breath in the quiet.

No answer.

You push yourself upright, the blankets slipping from your shoulders as the morning air greets your skin with a coolness that makes you shiver faintly. 

A small smile tugs at your lips despite yourself. He is an early riser - always has been. There is something steady, almost comforting, in that predictability. And yet, this morning, you feel the absence more keenly.

Perhaps because it is Christmas.

The thought settles softly in your mind, bringing with it a quiet warmth that has little to do with the room. 

And suddenly, you find yourself craving something simple and immediate. Coffee. And him. The rich, bitter scent curling through the house, of his arms warm and solid around you, grounding in a way nothing else quite manages. It pulls you fully from the remnants of sleep.

You swing your legs over the side of the bed, your feet meeting the cool floor with a small, involuntary intake of breath.

Wrapping a robe loosely around yourself, you cast one last glance at the sunlit bed before you step out into the quiet house.

You step into the hallway.

Fairy lights have been strung along the railing, their glow soft and unwavering, little constellations brought down to earth. They do not flicker, but hum gently with a steady warmth, casting delicate reflections against polished wood and glass. 

A few ornaments that you insisted on hanging, despite Ed’s mild amusement, catch the light and scatter it in quiet, prismatic fragments across the walls.

You remember decorating them together.

It had not been a hurried task, nor a particularly efficient one. He had handed you things instead of placing them himself, watching more than working, as though the act mattered less to him than the way you smiled while doing it.

The Christmas tree stands in the middle of the living room.

It may be a bit too large for the space, although neither of you was willing to admit that when you brought it home. It reaches almost to the ceiling, its branches full and unapologetically alive. The deep green is now softened by a careful layer of lights. Not the garish kind, but warm ones - golden, almost candle-like in their glow

They wind through the branches in patient spirals, illuminating the ornaments you had chosen together. Some are delicate glass, catching the firelight and the morning sun alike; others are older, more worn, carrying the quiet weight of years. A few hang slightly crooked, placed with more enthusiasm than precision, and left that way because neither of you had thought it worth correcting.

There is a small wooden angel near the top, slightly off-centre. You had gently argued about before deciding together that its imperfection suited it.

Tinsel, used sparingly, drapes here and there like frost caught mid-fall. And at the very tips of some branches, a dusting of artificial snow clings.

You find yourself smiling.

It is your first Christmas as a married couple.

The fireplace crackles softly to one side, its flames steady and low.

Above the fireplace, the mantle is decorated with a garland of evergreen that stretches across its length, threaded with warm lights. It features small, thoughtful touches: candles, a few ornaments, and a pair of stockings hanging side by side.

Yours and his. They gently brush against each other where they hang.

Outside the window, the world is hushed beneath falling snow.

It drifts steadily, thick enough now to soften the edges of everything outside, turning the world into something quieter, gentler. The glass has begun to fog faintly at the corners, the warmth inside pushing gently against the cold beyond.

And beneath the tree lay presents. Not an overwhelming number, but enough.

Each one wrapped with a kind of deliberate care, paper smoothed neatly, ribbons tied with quiet precision. A few bear small imperfections, creases where the paper had folded awkwardly, corners not quite as sharp as intended, but those only make them feel more real, more yours.

For a moment, you simply stand there, taking it in: the light, the warmth, the quiet evidence of shared effort and shared life.

Ed sits on the couch as though he has been there for some time, not restless, but waiting in that patient, grounded way that seems so entirely his. 

The firelight catches him first, tracing warm gold along the edges of his figure before the morning light from the windows finds him too, softening everything it touches.

He is still in his pyjamas.

A plain white shirt, slightly rumpled from sleep, clings just enough to hint at the warmth beneath it - simple, unassuming, and yet somehow unfairly distracting in its simplicity. The sleeves are short, the fabric is worn soft with time, and it deliciously highlights those big arms of his.

His checkered pants sit low and comfortable, as though he had dressed without thinking, more concerned with the moment than appearance.

And his hair is still unruly.

Not styled, not tamed, but left as sleep had made it, falling slightly out of place in a way that feels so quietly intimate it makes your chest tighten, just a little.

For a moment, you simply stand there in the doorway, watching him.

There is a box in his lap.

Wrapped.

Carefully, though not perfectly - one corner folded just slightly off, the ribbon tied with more determination than precision. His hands rest lightly on either side of it, not fidgeting, but not entirely still either, as though he has been aware of your absence and the anticipation of your return in equal measure.

He looks up then.

“Good morning,” you say softly, your voice carrying a warmth now that had been missing moments before.

His face changes. Ed’s eyes soften, something bright and unmistakably fond settling into them, and then he smiles.

Open, warm and immediate. The kind of smile that feels as though it belongs entirely to you in that moment.

“Good morning,” he replies, his voice low, still roughened faintly by sleep.

There is a small pause, just long enough to take you in properly, as though he is making sure you are really there, standing in the doorway with the morning wrapped around you.

Then, softer: “Merry Christmas.”

The words are simple, but they settle into the room with a kind of quiet significance, threading themselves through the light, the fire, the scent of pine and coffee.

His gaze lingers on you for a moment longer, something unspoken passing through it - something warm, something certain - before one hand lifts slightly from the gift in his lap.

An unspoken invitation to come closer.

You hesitate only a second before crossing the room, drawn in by him in a way that feels both natural and inevitable.

The floor is warm beneath your feet here, kissed by the fire, and as you move closer, the details of him sharpen. The faint crease in his shirt, the way his fingers rest against the edge of the box, the quiet steadiness in the way he watches you approach.

You lower yourself onto the couch beside him, close enough that your shoulder brushes his and your gaze drops to the box in his lap.

Your brow furrows slightly.

“…Ed,” you begin, a small note of confusion threading through your voice as you glance back up at him, “isn’t this… a little early for this?”

There’s something almost amused in the way you say it, but it’s genuine too. Habit lingers: Christmas mornings filled with noise, with family, with the slow, shared ritual of waiting until everyone is gathered.

A slow, knowing smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, subtle at first, then deepening just enough to betray that he has been expecting exactly this reaction.

He shifts slightly beside you, turning just enough that his knee brushes yours, his body angling toward you in a way that feels deliberate without being forced.

“Yeah,” he says, voice low, edged with something warm and teasing. “I know how it’s usually done.”

There’s a beat.

His gaze lingers on you - not fleeting, not distracted, but steady, intent, as though he’s choosing his next words carefully… or perhaps enjoying the moment just a little too much.

“But this isn’t usually.”

Your breath catches, just slightly.

He watches it happen. Of course he does.

That smirk shifts into something gentler, though no less dangerous in its own quiet way. His thumb brushes absently along the edge of the ribbon, not looking at it, his attention entirely on you.

“It’s our first Christmas,” he continues, voice dipping just a fraction, “as a married couple.”

The words settle between you, heavier now, more deliberate.

His shoulder presses a little more firmly against yours - not enough to trap, but enough to anchor.

“And,” he adds, tilting his head just slightly, eyes flicking over your face with a softness that contrasts the teasing curve of his mouth, “you’ve been a little… stressed lately.”

There’s something in the way he says it - not accusing, not even questioning but rather observing.

Your lips part, perhaps to protest, perhaps to dismiss it - but he doesn’t quite give you the chance.

His hand shifts, just barely, brushing against yours where it rests between you on the couch. The contact is light, almost accidental in appearance, but it lingers just long enough to be anything but.

“So,” he says, quieter now, his voice carrying that low, familiar warmth that seems to settle somewhere just beneath your skin, “I figured I’d do something about that.”

His eyes meet yours again - steady, unwavering.

And then, with the faintest lift of one brow, the smirk returning in full.

“What?” he murmurs, voice soft, teasing, unmistakably flirty now. “You gonna tell me I’m not allowed to spoil my wife a little?”

His blue eyes sparkle with mischief, that bright smile widening just a touch as he nods toward the box. “Go on, open it. It’s all for you.”

He doesn’t shift an inch, keeping the box firmly in place over his crotch, his body heat radiating through the thin material.

Curiosity piqued, you reach for the ribbon, your fingers brushing the edge of the box. 

You untie the bow and lift the lid, a soft gasp escapes your lips. 

There, nestled in the tissue paper like the most forbidden present, is Ed’s cock - thick and hard, poking up through a cleverly cut hole in the bottom of the box. 

The shaft stands proud, veined and flushed a deep pink, curving slightly toward you with a glossy bead of precum glistening at the swollen tip. 

It’s girthy, easily filling the space, the smooth skin stretched taut over the rigid length, his heavy balls tucked just below, peeking out from the opening in his pants that he’s obviously freed himself from. 

Ed  chuckles, a deep, rumbling sound that vibrates through his chest. “Surprise, sweetheart. Merry fucking Christmas. See how hard I got just thinking about you opening this? Your present’s been waiting all morning for you...”

He shifts his hips ever so slightly, making his cock twitch in the box, the tip brushing the edge of the tissue paper. 

“Go ahead, touch it. Wrap your hand around my fat dick and feel how much I want to pound into you right here on the floor, make you forget every damn worry. Or maybe slide your mouth down on it - suck me off like the naughty wife you are while I watch those pretty lips stretch around me.”

His voice drops lower, laced with hunger, as his free hand guides yours toward the box. “What do you say? Ready to unwrap the rest of your gift?”

Your eyes widen in genuine surprise, a bubble of laughter escaping your lips before you can stop it - nervous, delighted, and utterly turned on all at once. 

The audacity of it hits you like a warm wave, your cheeks flushing hot as you stare at Ed's exposed cock in that ridiculous, genius gift box. 

It's so him: playful yet filthy, knowing exactly how to catch you off guard and ignite that spark low in your belly. Your heart races, a mix of shock and arousal pooling between your thighs, making your pussy clench with anticipation. 

“Ed! Oh my god,” you manage between giggles, shaking your head in disbelief, but your gaze lingers on the thick cock, already imagining how it would feel sliding inside you.

Ed’s bright smile turns downright predatory, his blue eyes darkening with lust as he watches your reaction.

“Yeah, laugh it up, baby. But I see that look - you're soaked already, aren't you? Thinking about how my big cock’s gonna fill you up, make you scream my name while I fuck you senseless under this tree before our families arrive.” His voice is a gravelly whisper, dripping with promise, as he reaches for your hand, his strong fingers wrapping around yours with gentle insistence. 

He guides your palm downward, pressing it against the warm, velvety skin of his shaft. The heat of him sears into you, the rigid girth throbbing under your touch, veins pulsing as you instinctively curl your fingers around it. His dick is heavy, the precum slicking your skin as you give it a tentative stroke.

A low groan rumbles from his chest, his hips bucking slightly into your grip. 

“Fuck, that's it...stroke my cock like you own it, wife. Feel how hard you make me? Been dreaming of your tight mouth wrapped around the head, sucking me deep while I tangle my fingers in your hair and thrust down your throat.” 

His words send shivers racing down your spine, your laughter fading into a soft moan as arousal floods your cunt, your nipples hardening against the fabric of your robe.

You pump him slowly, savouring the way he twitches in your hand, the salty scent of his arousal filling the air, making your mouth water. Every glide of your fist heightens the ache between your legs, your clit throbbing with need.

After a few more teasing strokes, Ed’s breath hitches, his free hand abandoning your arm to grip the edge of the box. 

“Enough playing, sweetheart. Time to taste your present.” With a swift motion, he lifts the lid and shoves the box aside, his cock springing free.

The sight makes your pulse pound, desire overriding any lingering surprise as you lean forward without hesitation, your robe slipping open slightly. 

Your lips part, tongue flicking out to lap at the tip, over the salty bead there before you take him in - stretching your mouth around the swollen head, hollowing your cheeks as you suck him deeper. 

He fills you so perfectly, the musky flavour exploding on your tongue, and you hum in pleasure, your hand still working the base while waves of heat build inside you, eager for whatever comes next.

Ed’s fingers thread through your hair, gripping firmly at the roots as he tilts your head back just enough to meet your eyes, his gaze smouldering with that mix of affection and raw hunger. 

“Look at you, baby - already so eager for my cock down your throat. But let’s see how much you can handle this morning. Tap my thigh if it's too much, okay? I want you to take it all for me.” His voice is a husky command, laced with teasing challenge, sending a fresh rush of heat through your veins. 

You're nodding before you even realise it, the thrill of his control making your pussy throb, slickness gathering as you relax your jaw wider around him.

He eases in shallow at first, his hips rocking gently to slide just the head past your lips, letting you swirl your tongue along the underside while he watches your every reaction. 

The velvety texture drags against your mouth, his precum mixing with your saliva, and you moan softly, the vibration drawing a sharp hiss from him. 

His free hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing your stretched lips, the tenderness contrasting the building intensity as he pushes a little further, testing your limits with each incremental thrust.

Your body responds instinctively, arousal coiling tighter in your core, as you hollow your cheeks and take him deeper. 

The stretch starts to build, his thickness pressing against the back of your throat, but you’re so into it - the way he fills you, the power dynamic that makes your clit ache for friction. 

He talks more now, words tumbling out in a gravelly stream as his grip tightens. “Fuck, your mouth’s so hot and wet, swallowing me like a good little wife. Deeper now - relax that throat for me, let me bury my dick all the way in.”

His hips snap forward with more force, driving past your gag reflex, the intrusion deeper than he's ever gone before.

The sensation borders on uncomfortable, your throat constricting around the invading girth, muscles fluttering as you fight to breathe through your nose. 

Saliva pools and spills from the corners of your mouth, dripping down your chin in messy strings, but the discomfort only heightens the pleasure surging through you - waves of endorphins mixing with the burn, making your thighs clench together for relief. 

You gag wetly on the next push, the filthy, choking sound echoing in the quiet living room, but he doesn't stop, holding you steady as he grinds in further. 

“Gag on it, sweetheart. I love hearing those slutty noises. You’re taking me so well, throat, squeezing my cock like it’s begging for my load.”

Tears prick at your eyes from the effort, but you’re lost in the intensity, drool slicking his shaft and balls as you manage to take every last inch, your nose brushing his trimmed pubic hair. 

The fullness is overwhelming, your body trembling with the effort to accommodate him, yet the ache in your pussy intensifies, turning the almost-pain into pure, electric need. He fucks your mouth relentlessly now, pace quickening as wet slurps and gurgles fill the air, his balls slapping lightly against your chin with each deep plunge. 

“All of me, baby…Fuck, you’re perfect. Gonna cum so hard watching you choke on my dick like this.”

His rhythm falters, breaths coming in ragged pants, and you feel him swell impossibly thicker against your tongue. 

With a guttural groan, he pulls back just enough before cumming, half his length still buried in your mouth. Hot spurts flood your tongue first, salty and thick, coating your throat as you swallow what you can, the taste exploding with his essence. 

He yanks free on the next pulse, ropes of cum painting your lips, cheeks, and chin in sticky white streaks, some landing warm on your closed eyelids. 

You gasp for air, chest heaving, the mess dripping down your neck as aftershocks ripple through you, your own arousal at a fever pitch, body buzzing from the raw claim he’s just made.

Ed’s chest heaves as he stares down at you, his blue eyes darkening with a potent mix of satisfaction and lingering desire.

Cum glistens on your skin, warm trails cooling against your flushed cheeks and neck, while the remnants in your mouth pool thickly on your tongue. 

He doesn’t let the moment fade; instead, he cups your jaw gently, thumb swiping across your lower lip to gather a stray rope of his release. 

“Open up for me, love. Don’t waste a drop. Show me how much you love tasting me.” His voice dips low, coaxing rather than commanding, but the heat in it stirs the fire still smoldering in your belly.

You part your lips obediently, letting him slide his thumb inside, pressing the salty essence against your tongue. 

Obediently, you close around the digit, sucking softly to draw it clean. 

He watches intently, a soft groan escaping him when you swallow, the motion visible in the bob of your throat. “Good girl,” he murmurs, repeating the gesture with his fingers, scooping more from your chin and feeding it to you bit by bit. 

Each swallow sends a shiver through you, your body humming with submission, pussy clenching emptily as you take every salty bit he offers, eyes locked on his until the mess is mostly gone, leaving only faint shiny streaks.

Once he’s satisfied, Ed pulls you up into his lap, his strong arms wrapping around your waist to tuck you against his broad chest. 

The white shirt clings to his skin, damp from the intensity, and you can feel the steady thump of his heart under your palm as you rest your head on his shoulder. 

He grabs a nearby throw blanket from the couch, draping it over both of you, his hands roaming soothingly - stroking your back, brushing tangled hair from your face, wiping the last traces from your eyelids with the soft fabric.

“You were incredible, baby. So brave taking all of me like that. Merry Christmas. Couldn't think of a better way to start our day.” His words are tender, laced with that bright smile you adore, as he presses a kiss to your forehead, then your temple, nuzzling into your hair with affectionate hums.

But even in the afterglow, one hand drifts lower, palming your ass through the thin robe, squeezing the flesh as he shifts you closer, his semi-hard cock pressing insistently against your thigh. 

"Fuck, you’re so wet for me, aren’t you? I can feel it soaking through.” He nips at your earlobe, breath hot as his fingers tease the hem of your robe, dipping just inside to trace the slick folds of your pussy.