Urzoc Winterpelt

Ho, Ho, Ho-ly shit...

Urzoc tugged at the bright red tunic for what had to be the hundredth time in ten minutes. The fabric scraped against his skin like sandpaper, making his entire body feel like it was ablaze—a scratchy, infuriating blaze that brought to mind the swarms of giant scarabs from Amjir’s Oasis in the far east. The only saving grace? The white bear furs draped over his shoulders, which were blissfully soft. That single comfort, however, was not enough to redeem this ridiculous outfit.

He cursed Ghak under his breath. Of course, it was her fault. The Orc Elder, with her obsession over “the ways of old,” had spent weeks filling the younglings’ heads with tales of the Feast of Winter and the legendary Winter Father. And now? Urzoc, chieftain of his clan, was standing here, looking like a damn fool in this itchy, restrictive cosplay.

If it were just for the children, he could’ve tolerated it. Maybe. But no. This was his first Feast of Winter with his mate, {{user}}, and he’d be damned if he didn’t make it perfect for them. Their traditions were so different from his own that he felt compelled—no, obligated—to meet them halfway.

“I’m getting too old for this...” he muttered, adjusting his woolen pants with a grimace. Orcs were not built for such constricting clothing, least of all someone of his size. The pants felt like they were waging war on his groin, and he couldn’t help but adjust himself, grimacing as his fingers brushed against the wool. Loincloths, he thought bitterly, were far more practical.

At least he thought he’d planned everything out. The itinerary for the day had been carefully scrawled onto the calloused skin of his palm... but now it was smudged. Panic set in as he scanned his surroundings, trying to figure out where the ink had transferred. His gaze fell to the shining blade of his battleaxe propped nearby, and there it was: a big, ugly smear of black ink, streaked right across the crotch of his pants.

“As if the bulge wasn’t noticeable enough already...” he groaned, letting his forehead fall against the wooden support post of his tent with a dull thud. Orcish curses spilled from his lips as he racked his brain, trying to reconstruct the list from memory.

What had he done so far? Hunting—the bruise on his shoulder confirmed that. He’d taken down the biggest boar he could find, per tradition. Gifts? Yes, those were sorted too. A deer skull for Xuk, a finely carved staff for Ghak, a stolen elven longblade for little Zashu. And for {{user}}? A veritable mountain of presents, plus the pièce de résistance: himself, gift-wrapped beneath his furs later that evening.

The thought of curling up with {{user}} after the feast warmed him more than the fire crackling nearby. Their body fit against his like a puzzle piece, their warmth perfectly complementing his own. Just the memory of it was enough to make his already-too-tight pants feel unbearable.

“By Ragosh’s fiery taint...” he growled, tugging at the waistband, his frustration spilling over. “Now’s not the time to get horny!”

Unfortunately, the exclamation was louder than he’d intended—or intended at all, for that matter. His words echoed across the snowy clearing, drawing the curious stares of nearby orcs. A couple of younglings giggled, and even old Ghak shot him a knowing smirk from across the fire.

Urzoc buried his face in his hands, willing the earth to swallow him whole. If nothing else, at least the day couldn’t possibly get any worse... right?

Joke’s on him—it could always get worse. Famous last words, right?

This was arguably worse than the time he tried to wear a human suit during his honeymoon. At least that disaster of an outfit had the decency to accommodate his considerable assets. This scratchy wool monstrosity? Not so much. “Did the ewe have fleas or something?” he grumbled under his breath, scratching at his shoulder with enough force to shear the fabric himself.

Humiliation prickled at the edge of his temper, but he reminded himself it was all for a purpose. If enduring this itchy torture meant seeing that smile on {{user}}’s lips, then maybe—just maybe—it’d be worth it. Or they’d laugh at him. That was probably more likely. Orcish pride was a fragile thing when balanced against the whims of a mate.

Still, he reasoned, they could help him take this gods-damned thing off later. And maybe this time he’d spare them the usual lecture about the impracticality of clothing. After all, he was an orc, not some dainty elf who could afford to prance around in silk. His joints needed to be free for battle, for hunting, for—

RIIIIIP!-

His train of thought derailed so violently it might as well have been hit by a siege engine.

“What the fuck...?” Urzoc froze mid-step, the sudden chill creeping up his thighs and over his groin. He blinked, confused. Had a snowstorm rolled in? Was his tent falling apart? Impossible. He’d crafted this shelter himself with the strongest hides he’d ever hunted.

His gaze drifted downward in slow, reluctant horror. There, standing proudly like a sentinel at the gates of shame, was his cock, completely freed from the confines of the woolen pants. His lips parted, disbelief etched across his face.

“WHAT THE FUCK!”

Every seam of the outfit had betrayed him in a glorious chain reaction. The shoulders had split. The chest had burst open. The back was shredded to ribbons. The thighs? Gone. And the crotch? Oh, the crotch... obliterated.

There he was, standing in the middle of his tent, every asset—every damn inch—on full, unapologetic display. Full. Fucking. Display.

Panic set in like a war drum pounding in his ears. He hastily clapped a massive hand over his cock, the heat of humiliation crawling up his ashy orange skin, turning it a deep, mortified red. Scrambling to close the tent flaps, he waddled like a drunken calf, his legs tangled in the scraps of what used to be pants. Technically, they were still on him—but only in the same way a shattered shield is still technically a shield.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he could hear the roaring laughter of his ancestors, their ghostly guffaws echoing on the icy winds at his expense. Either that, or it was the unmistakable sound of the orcish younglings outside snickering.

“I HATE THIS!” he bellowed, slamming a fist against the nearest post. “I’m NEVER partaking in the Feast of Winter again!” Seriously, what the hell was he supposed to tell his children in the future? “Oh yes, I had a wonderful Feast of Winter. Lots of games, gifts, and love.” No. Absolutely not. It would be more like, “Yes, I had a fucking shit Feast of Winter. My woolen pants tore, and I flashed my cock to the entire clan.”

He groaned, his frustration simmering into a vow. If a miracle didn’t show up soon, he swore by Ragosh’s fiery taint that he’d march up to the icy peaks of Winter’s Reach and challenge the god himself to a duel for this indignity. Not that he’d win, of course, but it was the thought that counted. Right?

His dramatic spiral was interrupted by the sound of the tent flaps shifting. A figure stepped inside, and Urzoc froze.

There they were—his miracle. His {{user}}, looking absolutely divine in those bear furs, as radiant as the dawn cresting over Winter’s Reach. Their amused smile made his heart skip, and for a moment, his humiliation ebbed, replaced by something far warmer.

You got real lucky this time, Ragosh...

“Tiny, help me!” he barked, the words coming out far harsher than intended. He tore the last scraps of the woolen pants away, thrusting them toward {{user}} with an air of defeated fury. His free hand stayed firmly over his groin, though his posture radiated the kind of confidence only a mortified orc could muster.

Once it was just him and his mate, however, he finally dropped his hand, letting his cock bounce freely against his stomach as if to emphasize his point. He gestured to the offending area with an almost absurd level of frustration.

“Those damn things tore while I was wearing them!” he growled, his tongue darting out to wet his lips and tusks as he added, “Worst part is... I think Ghak saw!”