ΔΨΟ. Delta Psi Omicron, better known as St. Delta. Rumors circle around about how the frat got its nickname— some say it’s because of their charity work, while others say it’s because they own the biggest house on University Avenue. But most know it’s because the people who flood to their parties always end up on their knees.

Your roommate won’t shut up about St. Delta. You got unlucky with dorm pairings, and all year you’ve been nothing but pressured to attend one of the frat’s events.

“Come on. Maybe you’ll find someone to cuddle up and watch Netflix with you or some shit.” Your roommate laughs at you, gesturing to the posters messily taped to your side of the dorm wall. “People travel like, two, three hours to go to their parties and you’re telling me that living across the street from them does nothing to you?”

You groan. This is the third time St. Delta’s been mentioned today, and the millionth thing mentioned about how ‘crazy’ or ‘insane’ or some other intense synonym pulled from his ass to describe their parties.

“What if I don’t want to go?” You murmur back to your roommate from your bed. He knows you’re not much of a partier. You’re hardly even a drinker on the weekend.

“Whatever, man.” He shrugs. “The boys are tasty. Thought I was doing a favor saying you’d want a bite.”

That is tempting.

When your roommate disappears to the bathroom, you wonder if it’s worth trying.

‘The boys are tasty.’

…

You decide to go without the company of your roommate. If it’s really that crazy of a party, making friends should be easy, right? The lights are off and the music is loud in the three story building. St. Delta is the oldest frat at your college, but they must destroy the house so much that the interior looks newly remodeled. LEDs mounted to the ceiling flash rainbows into your eyes. God, is this really going to be worth it? You should’ve just stayed home, but since you’re here you may as well have a free drink.

You try to make your rounds to find a cooler but you get blocked by a bunch of guys are crowded around one man, cheering and laughing louder than the music. The man in the center has his fly and jeans buttons undone, his suit shirt is torn and hangs at the waist by the single bottom button. His tie is still around his neck and he’s holding up a new shirt, clearly gifted, against his body to measure its size. It’s a plain white shirt with the words COMMUNITY DICK printed in big black lettering.

“How many times did’ja get your cock sucked, Cas?” One guy shouts. Another wraps an arm around Cas while a guy takes a photo.

“At least four times! He probably sucked some too, he’s got cum in his hair!” Another guy laughs and runs his fingers roughly through Cas’s hair, causing Cas to moan a little. Someone sticks a dollar bill in the man’s waistband and the group goes wild.

“Say cheese, Cassie!”

The group hollers and Cas sticks his tongue out for the picture. He puts the shirt on, which ends up being too short, and the crowd disperses for more alcohol. You try to follow the horde in the direction of drinks and accidentally ram into this Cas guy.

“Ah- Sorry!” You say timidly. Cas doesn’t seem bothered. His tired blue eyes sweep your body up and down, clearly liking what he sees.

Castiel’s pants are low enough to see his v-line and trimmed happy trail poking from his boxers. The man looks like he’s been tossed around in every way possible, played with, fucked silly, and got off to it every time.

“You’re new…” Cas takes his bottom lip between his teeth.

“How’d you know..?”

“If you weren’t new then you’d be naked by now.” He says it matter-of-factly, voice slightly slurred.

“Oh.”

You notice he has a tattoo above his groin— lineart of a church with three Greek letters underneath: ΔΨΟ. Oh. He must be one of the frat boys your roommate was talking about.

You like what you see, and it’s shameful.

“Virgin?”

You look back up at his face and shrug. None of his business.

“Hm.”

“Thanks anyway.” You walk past him into the kitchen. The men from earlier are there, grinning and looking at the pictures they took of Castiel.

“Fuck, someone needs to plow him or he’s going to be pissy tomorrow.”

“How much more does he fuckin’ need?”

“Until his tie goes missing.”

The group laughs even louder. You help yourself to an unopened bottle of vodka, cracking it open and dumping a generous helping into a solo cup. There’s no chaser in sight. Not even a Coke can. So you down the thing straight, fighting back the expression your face wants to contort to. You whip around when the group gets rowdy again. Castiel hobbles into the room clutching his tie.

“Ohhh, looks like he’s not letting anyone have it tonight.” The guy with the camera giggles, gesturing at the tie: “The head’s really that bad?”

“Unfortunately, Michael.” Castiel limps to the counter beside you to get a drink. He casts a sideways glance at you. “What’re you staring for?”

You stutter like you were caught doing something bad. “I just wanted to know what they’re talking about. And if you’re okay.”

“Jesus, you really are ignorant…” Castiel reaches for a second shot. He tugs at his tie like it’s a badge of honor, then at his sagging jeans in an attempt to cover his obviously bruised ass. “…But you’re pretty. D’ya like guys?”

For some reason the alcohol starts to hit you now. Not enough to be drunk, but enough to make you honest. You nod.

“Then I’m trying to figure out why you haven’t even tried to fuck me.”

All of the blood in your body rushes down faster than you thought humanly possible. “You…didn’t ask..”

“You don’t need to ask.” Cas stumbles until he’s leaning sloppily against you. “I belong to the St. Delta, the house and her visitors.” A hand finds its way into his boxers and he starts panting. You don’t know what to do. Your back is against the kitchen counter and you just…let him. At least for now.

He’s so tired that he can hardly please himself with the proper form— it’s kind of embarrassing how he looks more like a cheap body than anything else. Your lip twitches. Fuck it.

You pull his arm from his boxers and replace it with yours. You know what you’re doing because you take care of yourself. If this guy is so desperate for something, he needs to get it right.

Your hand squeezes him until he gags, working him just until the edge before stopping. He swaps positions with you against the counter and you have him pinned, causing the cups and cans on the counter to topple over. Castiel looks like he’s going to fall over or throw up. You’re not going to let that happen.

“Is this it? What you want?” You ask like you’re guilty of something, but Cas is so into it that he almost looks hypnotized.

“Mmh…mhm….” He presses his forehead to your chest. Castiel’s stupid shirt rises up higher and you can feel the muscles on his stomach grind against yours. He’s bigger than anyone you’ve ever met. Thicker. Your tongue slips loose and suddenly all the thoughts in your head announce themselves to the room:

“What the fuck’s your problem?”

You don’t stop though. You pinch him and he gasps. He’s twitching in all the right ways and it makes you hungry for something you didn’t think you’d ever indulge. You’re in public, at a frat party of all places, the friends of your new toy standing across the room like nothing’s new.

“It’s okay…” Castiel whines. “Doesn’t count if you have a purity ring.” He says with complete seriousness, grabbing your bicep with his sticky hand and you feel the metal of his ring rub against you. He’s so proud of himself, so compliant and so willing to do whatever it is you want.

“No wonder you’re the household toy,” you spit on your hand and work him harder. “You just say ‘yes’ to everything. How do you function in class?”

“I get good grades…” he whimpers. “I—ungh…gonna get my master’s.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you’re looking for a few masters…” you scoff, squeezing him so he squeaks out his response.

“M’serious—ah!”

“I don’t listen to dumb holes.”

“Maybe a PhD…”

“Paying so much for school just to pimp yourself out for free. Sounds pretty stupid to me.”

You get him off quickly after feeling the crowd of eyes on you from across the room. Michael makes a lewd gesture, twisting his hands in front of his open jaw. He mouths something:

“Take his tie.”

The others stick their tongues out and continue with the jeering. Castiel collapses against you, thighs shaking, sweating a storm. You catch him by the arms and set him on the alcohol and cum covered floor. The guy’s in pure bliss— you’re not one to kink shame but Christ is it impressive how okay with it he is. You hastily down another drink to cope with the feeling of what you just did. You take his tie off his neck and tuck it in your pocket.

“That’s the first time he’s let someone take it without a fight.” One of the guys announces. “I might need some of you later.”

That’s enough for one night. If you’re going to get your own rocks off it’ll be in the privacy of your bathroom, replaying the image of Cas whining to you, his self-reporting shirt, the letters tattoed under his v-line, the ecstasy on his face when you forced a mess in his boxers better than anyone here—

You wash your hand in the nearby sink, checking on Castiel periodically before you leave. His friends haul him up the floor and put him on the kitchen chair. One of his friends tells you that he’s fine, and Cas confirms it.

“Come back next week…” Cas coos. “I’ll be good for you.”

You’re definitely using that tie in the bathroom tonight. And considering joining a frat.

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