"Alright, dickheads, let's see what you've got." Ryan crossed his arms, leaning against the frat house's battered couch as four brothers formed a semi-circle around him, grinning like idiots. The air smelled vaguely of stale beer and Febreze, standard for a Sunday morning after last night’s disaster of a party.
Ethan, the unofficial ringleader of this particular humiliation, clutched a wrinkled paper bag with unnecessary gravitas. "Before we proceed," he said, clearing his throat like a lawyer about to deliver damning evidence, "let the record show that you did, in fact, place dead fucking last in March Madness. You did spectacularly bad, bro."
At six-foot-three, Ethan towered over Ryan by a solid two inches. His sun-bleached blond hair was perpetually tousled, and today it stuck up in random tufts, especially at the crown, where a cowlick had declared independence.
Clothing was where Ethan’s chaos truly shone. Today, he’d paired a vintage Guns N’ Roses tank top with cargo shorts that had approximately seventeen pockets, half of them stuffed with random debris: a crumpled receipt, two guitar picks, and what might’ve been a fossilized gummy worm. Around his wrist, a faded friendship bracelet dangled, the colors long since muted by beer spills and shower steam.
Ryan rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, I know. Just get it over with." His stomach twisted a little, not out of fear, but the kind of anticipatory dread that came with knowing these guys too well. They wouldn’t go easy on him. That was the whole point.
Ethan held up the crumpled paper bag like it contained the holy grail, his grin widening as he glanced at the others. "As decreed by the sacred bylaws of Delta Tau, section four, subsection 'Fuck Around and Find Out', whatever's in this bag, you must wear until midnight strikes." He paused dramatically, letting the weight of the sentence sink in. "No additional layers, no sneaky hoodies, no pleading with some chick to borrow her cardigan." The others snickered, nudging each other like middle-schoolers at a slumber party.
Ryan exhaled through his nose, already regretting every life choice that led him to this moment. "Yeah, yeah, just-"
"But!" Ethan interrupted, raising a finger. "Because we are generous gods, we’ll allow you to keep your sneakers and socks. Consider it a mercy."
With a flourish, Ethan upended the bag onto the coffee table. Out tumbled a white jockstrap, the kind old-school gym teachers wore in 80s movies, and a pair of white mesh shorts so short they might as well have been underwear. The fabric was practically translucent.
Ryan stared at the pile of fabric like it might bite him. "You’re joking." The mesh shorts were barely wider than a headband, and the jockstrap’s elastic looked like it had last seen action during the Reagan administration.
"Oh, we never joke about punishments," said Drew, the film major of the group, who was currently filming everything on his phone with the focus of a war photographer. "Especially not after you bet your dignity on Duke."
"Fuck Duke," muttered Ryan, but he was already reaching for the shorts. The moment his fingers brushed the mesh, Ethan erupted into applause while Jason wolf-whistled like they were at a strip club. Ryan flipped them off, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
Ryan stood at six-foot-one, all lean muscle and sun-kissed skin from too many afternoons spent lounging on the frat house’s roof. His dark brown hair was perpetually tousled, the kind of messy that looked intentional but wasn’t. It curled slightly at the nape of his neck, a detail he’d only noticed when some girl at a party drunkenly tugged on it and declared it "unfairly soft." His eyes were a disarmingly light hazel, the kind that caught sunlight and made people do a double-take, though right now they were narrowed in a mix of irritation and resignation.
Currently, he was dressed in the standard frat-boy uniform of a stretched-out navy blue tank with the Delta Tau letters half-peeling off, paired with gray sweatpants that had seen better days. His feet were shoved into beat-up white sneakers, the laces frayed from being constantly double-knotted in haste, crew socks peering out from the top.
The contrast between his usual lazy comfort and the punishment gear on the table was almost comical. Ryan’s fingers hovered over them, his tanned forearm flexing as he debated whether to just bolt for the door. But then Ethan would probably tackle him, and Drew would definitely film it, and then he’d have to wear this shit and be immortalized getting pancaked by Ethan.
Ryan snatched the jockstrap off the table with the resigned energy of a man walking to the gallows, already pivoting toward the hallway where the bathroom waited like a sanctuary. "Alright, you savages, give me two minutes to-"
"Whoa, whoa, no," Ethan crowed, lunging to block his path with the reflexes of a guy who'd spent too many summers playing goalie in beer-league soccer. He spread his arms wide, grinning like a shark. "Bylaws state you change right here. Article 3, Paragraph 'No Sneaky Shit.'"
Ryan froze, the jockstrap dangling from his fingers like a surrender flag. "You're kidding me. You’ll know I’m wearing it the second I walk out, dumbass. It’s basically a fucking napkin with straps."
Jason fake-gasped, clutching his chest. "How dare you say we're dumbasses?" The others erupted into laughter, Drew zooming in with his phone as Ethan pantomimed wiping away tears.
Ryan opened his mouth to argue, but Ethan cut him off by snatching the sweatpants’ waistband and giving it a playful tug. "Nope. Right here, right now. Or we add an hour for every minute you stall." He paused, then added solemnly, "Per the sacred texts."
Ryan groaned, but the glint in Ethan’s eye said he wasn’t bluffing. The Delta Tau rulebook did have a weirdly detailed punishment clause, mostly because they’d drafted it drunk sophomore year and kept adding increasingly bizarre amendments.
Resigning himself, Ryan yanked his shirt over his head in one motion, tossing it at Ethan’s face. The guys whooped as it landed with a soft thwap, Ethan immediately lobbing it back like a grubby basketball. "Nice abs, bro," Drew commented dryly from behind his phone. "You been doing, like, one sit-up a month?"
Ryan flipped him off, hesitating only a second before hooking his thumbs into his sweatpants. The elastic waistband surrendered without protest, pooling around his ankles to reveal plan black boxer briefs. The guys groaned in exaggerated disappointment. "Boo! Underwear and pants? You’re basically a nun," Jason complained, kicking the discarded sweats toward the kitchen like a deflated soccer ball.
Ethan snatched the jockstrap off the table, dangling it by one frayed strap. "Your chariot awaits, Cinderella." Ryan snatched it back, glaring as the ancient elastic snapped against his wrist like a rubber band. He held it up, eyeing the yellowed waistband with deep suspicion. "This thing smells like a locker room from 1987."
"Vintage," Ethan corrected, grinning. "Now on with it, or we vote to upgrade you to that yellow thong we found after our last rager."
Ethan crossed his arms, his biceps flexing under the tank top’s ragged armholes. "Tick-tock, Ry. Midnight’s not getting any further away." His voice was all mock-seriousness, but the way his mouth kept twitching betrayed him.
Ryan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as he hooked one leg through the jockstrap's waistband only for Aaron's voice to cut through the laughter like a chainsaw. "Hold the fuck up," Aaron barked, leaning forward from where he'd been lounging against the armchair. "Did we say you could keep your boxers on? Cause I don't recall that, bro."
Aaron was built like someone had taken a linebacker then shrunk them down to a more reasonable 5'9". His black hair was cropped close on the sides, longer on top, and currently sticking up in chaotic spikes from where he’d clearly slept on it wrong. Today’s outfit was a ratty gray muscle tee with the sleeves ripped off and a pair of black basketball shorts. His arms were crossed, revealing a faded tattoo of a shark on his left bicep, a relic from a drunken spring break in Miami.
Jason, perched on the arm of the couch like a vulture waiting for carrion, nodded solemnly. "Gotta say, Aaron’s right," he said, rubbing his chin like a judge delivering a verdict. Jason was the shortest of the group at 5'7", but he made up for it with the kind of wiry energy that suggested he could bench-press a motorcycle if properly motivated. His hair, an almost metallic copper, was kept in a carefully maintained curly fringe. His sharp green eyes were currently alight with mischief, and the smirk on his face was the kind that got him both laid and punched in equal measure. Today’s outfit was a vintage Metallica tee paired with ripped black jeans that looked like they’d survived a woodchipper.
Ryan froze, the jockstrap dangling halfway up his thigh. "You’re kidding me," he deadpanned, but the way Ethan was nodding slowly and thoughtfully told him they were dead serious.
"Rules is rules," Jason sing-songed, kicking his feet up on the coffee table. "Unless you wanna forfeit and wear the thong and a pair of Drew’s mom’s old heels."
Drew, still filming, snorted. "My mom would kill you."
"Worth it," Jason shot back.
Drew was the newest brother in the frat. Lean and wiry, at 5’11", he was neither the tallest nor the shortest. His dark brown hair was curly, framing his startlingly pale blue eyes. Today, they were crinkled at the corners behind his phone’s camera lens, a smirk playing on his lips like he was the only one in on the joke.
Drew’s outfit was the least chaotic of the group. A faded black hoodie with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, revealing forearms dusted with fine, dark hair. His jeans were blue and actually intact, a rarity in this house, and his sneakers were scuffed but clean, the laces double-knotted with military precision.
Ryan exhaled through his nose, fingers twitching on the elastic waistband of his boxers. The room had gone unnervingly quiet, save for the distant hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of the floorboards as someone shifted their weight. Even Ethan, usually the loudest of the bunch, was watching with rapt attention, his grin widening by the second.
Ryan's fingers hesitated at the waistband of his boxer briefs, the elastic digging into his hips like a final barrier of dignity. With a muttered curse, he hooked his thumbs under the fabric and shoved them down in one swift motion. The boxers pooled around his ankles, leaving him stark naked except for his battered sneakers and white crew socks, one of which was slightly bunched at the top where he'd tugged it on too fast that morning.
His body was a study in contradictions. Lean but defined, the kind of build that came from lazy afternoons playing pickup basketball. His chest and smooth stomach tapered down to narrow hips where a trail of dark hair led south to a neatly trimmed bush. His cock hung a heavy and soft four inches against his thighs, flushed pink even at rest, the head peeking out from its hood.
The room erupted in whistles.
"Damn, Ry, packing heat!" Ethan crowed, slapping his knee like he'd just witnessed the funniest punchline in history. Jason fake-swooned against the couch, fanning himself with a discarded pizza box lid. Even Drew's phone tilted slightly, the lens adjusting focus with precision as Ryan's dick swayed slightly with his sharp inhale.
Ryan's whole body flushed, starting at his collarbones then crawling up his neck in splotchy patches of red that clashed with his tan. His cock twitched traitorously as Aaron lobbed a crumpled beer can at his ass, the aluminum bouncing off with a hollow clink. "Turn around, princess, let’s see the full package," Aaron drawled, waggling his eyebrows.
Ryan flipped them off with both hands, but the gesture lost some impact when his cock swung forward with the movement, drawing another round of catcalls. "Fuck off," he muttered, but the corner of his mouth twitched despite himself. His chest rose sharply with each breath, the muscles in his abdomen flexing as he reached for the jockstrap with forced nonchalance.
Ethan snatched it first, dangling it just out of reach. "Ah-ah, gotta earn it," he teased, swinging the yellowed elastic like a pendulum. Ryan lunged, and immediately regretted it as his cock bounced wildly with the motion, drawing a chorus of "Ooooh!" from the peanut gallery. Even Drew cracked, his quiet snort audible over Jason's exaggerated gasp.
Ryan snatched the jockstrap back, glaring as the ancient elastic snapped against his wrist. He held it up, eyeing the frayed straps with deep suspicion. "This thing looks like it survived the fucking Cretaceous period."
"Vintage," Ethan corrected, grinning. "Like your mom."
Ryan hooked one leg through the jockstrap’s waistband, wobbling slightly as he balanced on one foot- a move made infinitely harder by the fact that his bare dick was currently the center of attention in a room full of his idiot friends. The elastic snapped against his thigh with an audible thwack, and he hissed through his teeth.
Ryan yanked the waistband up, the frayed elastic biting into his hips as he wrestled the pouch into place. The fabric was stiff with age, the mesh scratchy against his skin, and for one horrifying second, he thought it might not fit, but then everything settled with a final, unforgiving snap. His cock nestled awkwardly in the pouch, and his ass was framed by the yellowing straps of the jock.
"Uh." Ryan glanced down. "This feels illegal."
Jason cackled, rolling onto his side on the couch. "That’s the point," he wheezed, smacking the coffee table for emphasis. Drew’s phone tilted downward, the lens re-focusing as Ryan adjusted himself, the mesh doing absolutely nothing to obscure the outline of his dick.
Aaron leaned forward with the grin of a hyena spotting wounded prey. "Oh great and mighty Ethan," he drawled, fingers steepled mock-reverently, "did you happen to have another surprise tucked up your sleeve?"
Ethan gasped theatrically, slapping a palm to his forehead. "Oh shit, thank you for the reminder, noble squire!" He turned to Drew with the solemnity of a knight requesting his sword. "Drew, my dude, if you wouldn’t mind?"
Drew, still filming, reached behind the couch with his free hand without breaking focus. He produced a crumpled bag and tossed it to Ethan with a silent smirk.
Ryan’s stomach dropped. "No. No. Whatever’s in there, burn it."
Ethan ignored him, shaking the bag like a maraca. "Alright, Ry, here’s the deal. We’ve got some optional accessories in here. You can choose to wear ‘em or not, but the second you decide? Binding. No take-backsies." He paused, grinning wider. "So. You want more clothes, or you good with just the jock and shorts?"
Ryan hesitated exactly one second before growling, "Just fucking hand it over bro. Yes, obviously, more clothes."
Ethan whooped, upending the bag onto the coffee table with the flourish of a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat. Four items tumbled out. A small bottle of bright blue pills labeled "EXTREME PERFORMANCE" with a cartoon muscle guy flexing on the label. An old phone. A clear bottle of lube so thick it sloshed like syrup. A butt plug.
The butt plug clattered onto the coffee table with a soft thud, rolling slightly before coming to rest against the lube bottle like they were old friends. Ryan's eyes flicked between the four items with the horrified fascination of a man watching a train wreck in slow motion.
Jason leaned forward, plucking the plug up between two fingers like a sommelier inspecting a fine wine. "Silicone," he announced, giving it an experimental squeeze. "Medium size. Tasteful." He held it up to the light, turning it slowly. "See how it catches the light? That's quality craftsmanship."
The butt plug glistened under the overhead light like some kind of deranged trophy. Ryan's face went through three distinct shades of red before settling on a deep, mortified crimson. "You guys can’t be serious."
Ethan cleared his throat with mock solemnity. "As the sacred Delta Tau bylaws state-"
"I know what the fucking bylaws say," Ryan snapped, but his voice cracked halfway through. His fingers twitched at his sides, the jockstrap's elastic digging into his hips.
Ethan waggled the bottle of blue pills with a grin that made Ryan’s stomach flip. "Need some water, Ry? Or you gonna raw-dog it like a champ?"
Ryan snatched the bottle from him with a glare. "Fuck you. How many of these am I supposed to take?"
Aaron leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes glinting. "Let’s start with two. For science, of course."
Ryan popped the cap, shook out two pills, and dry-swallowed them with a grimace. The aftertaste was chalky and vaguely chemical, like someone had crushed up a Flintstone vitamin and mixed it with regret. Then, with a smirk sharp enough to cut glass, he said, "Oh, wait. By the bylaws, Section Seven, Subsection 'Sushi Disaster of 2025,' when one brother partakes in a consumable, all brothers must follow suit." He tossed the bottle to Ethan with a shit-eating grin. "Bottoms up, dickheads."
Ethan caught the bottle mid-air, blinking at the label's cartoon muscleman flexing aggressively under the words "EXTREME PERFORMANCE." His grin faltered for half a second, just long enough for Ryan to savor the moment, before he shrugged and shook out two pills. "Bold move, Ry," he muttered, tossing them back with an exaggerated gulp. The pills stuck halfway down his throat, and he coughed violently, spraying spit across Jason's Metallica shirt.
Jason recoiled. "Jesus Christ, E." He snatched the bottle next, wiping it on his jeans before dry-swallowing his share. His face contorted like he'd bitten into a lemon. "Tastes like battery acid," he gasped, passing it to Drew.
Drew, still filming one-handed, paused the video just long enough to pop the pills. His pale blue eyes watered as they went down. "Those are... definitely expired," he rasped, tossing the bottle to Aaron.
Aaron caught it without looking, his reflexes kicking in. He held the bottle up to the light, squinting at the illegible expiration date. "Eh, fuck it." He knocked back the pills, then immediately gagged. "Oh that's vile."
Jason coughed out a laugh, tossing the butt plug underhand like it was a ceremonial first pitch. "Time for the fun part, bro."
Ryan caught it with one hand, grimacing as the cold silicone stuck to his palm. He grabbed the lube bottle, squeezed a thick glob onto the plug, then hesitated just long enough for Ethan to slap his own thighs and bark, "Chop chop, princess, we ain't got all day!"
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