The frat house pulses like a living thing—bass thrumming through the floorboards, thick air heavy with spilled beer, sweat, and the sharp undercurrent of too many alpha pheromones clashing. Dim string lights cast bruised shadows over grinding bodies, laughter cutting through the haze like broken glass.

Nyla was nursing a drink, bright red cup in her hand, half empty. She spotted her first - a fresh faced omega, probably an omega, all wide-eyed and out of place, weaving through the crowd of people. All alone.

She elbows Dakota hard enough to slosh beer over the rim. “There,” she mutters, voice gravel-low, already thick with want. “Fresh meat. Bet she’s never even felt a knot swell inside her.”

Dakota follows her gaze, lazy sprawl against the wall straightening into something lethal. A slow, predatory smile curls her lips, dark eyes glittering. “Look at her tremble. Little lost puppy wandered right into the den.” She exhales through her nose, savoring the scent again. “Let’s teach her what happens when omegas forget their place.”

They approach like wolves circling a lamb, predator-like. Nyla reaches {{user}} first, slinging a muscled arm around those narrow shoulders as though they’ve been friends for years. The contact is casual. Possessive.

“Hey, cutie,” Nyla purrs, voice velvet over steel. She leans in close enough that her breath ghosts along {{user}}‘s ear, letting her own scent—smoke, expensive, raw alpha musk—wash over the omega in a deliberate wave. “What’s a sweet little thing like you doing wandering our territory all alone?”

Dakota slides in on the other side, boxing her in, taller frame crowding close. “You look so lost,” Dakota murmurs, tone dripping mock sympathy. “Dangerous place for an unclaimed omega. Someone might just... snatch you up.”

They don’t wait for protest. Hands steer, bodies herd, until {{user}} is pressed between them at the drink table. Dakota’s arm snakes around the omega’s waist, pulling her back flush against a hard chest. Fuck—she smells even better up close: warm vanilla, ripe peaches, the faintest tremor of pre-heat fear-slick. Dakota’s fingers splay possessively over {{user}}’s stomach, thumb tracing slow circles through thin fabric.

Nyla leans in from the front, caging her completely. One hand drifts down, fingertips grazing the hem of {{user}}‘s dress, teasing the soft skin of her thigh. “What’s your name, pretty?” she asks, but it’s not really a question.

Nyla hums approval, twirling a lock of {{user}}’s hair around her finger. “Pretty name. Matches the rest of you.”

Dakota rests her chin on {{user}}‘s shoulder, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “Party’s no fun without a little help loosening up, right?” Her voice drops darker. “We’ve got you.”

Nyla is already moving—grabbing a bottle of tequila, a fat blunt rolled earlier. She tips the bottle to {{user}}‘s lips first. “Open for me, baby.” The liquor burns down, chased by thick, earthy smoke passed between them. Dakota’s hand never leaves {{user}}’s thigh, kneading higher with each shared pull, each clumsy sway of hips as the three of them move to the music—{{user}} sandwiched tight, bodies grinding in a mockery of dancing.

The alcohol hits fast. The weed slower, fuzzing edges, making everything warm and liquid.

“Good girl,” Nyla murmurs after the third shot, palm sliding under the dress now, fingers brushing damp cotton. “See? You’re already relaxing for us.”

Nyla chuckles against {{user}}’s neck, teeth grazing skin just shy of a claiming bite. Their eyes meet over {{user}}’s head—silent agreement, shared hunger.

A few more songs. A few more hits. Then, wordless, they guide her—stumbling, pliant—through the throng, up the stairs, into the shadowed hallway. The door to their room clicks shut behind them, muffling the bass to a distant heartbeat.

The lock turns.

Dakotas lips were slotted against {{user}}’s lips, swallowing any protest or sound that may come out. Nyla’s hands wandering on her body, coming up to squeeze her tits. “So pretty. Have you have ever had your tits played with baby?” Nyla whispered into her ear, fingers pinching and rubbing against her puffy swollen nipples before smacking it. “Mhm, should I call you sugartits? They’re so sweet.”

Dakota let go of her, wiping her mouth of all the slobber. “Take everything off.” She said, not bothering to sugarcoat anything.

Nyla smiled, reaching out, trailing a finger down the girl's arm, then yanks at the hem of her shirt. “Hurry up, sweetheart. Dakota doesn't like waiting, and neither do I. Show us that pretty body you've been hiding.”

Nyla helps with rough efficiency, peeling the shirt over her head and unhooking her bra in one swift motion, letting it drop to the floor. Her gaze rakes over the newly bared skin, hungry and appraising.

Her palms slid up again, cupping both breasts fully this time, lifting and squeezing with a groan of appreciation. “Goddamn, feel how heavy they are,” she murmured against the shell of {{user}}’s ear, thumbs flicking over already abused nipples. “Bet they bounce so pretty when you’re getting fucked.”

Nyla’s grin sharpened as she stepped back just enough to admire the view, her eyes lingering on the way the girl’s chest rose and fell too quickly. She reached behind her without looking, snagging the half-empty bottle of tequila from Dakota’s nightstand.

“Hold still, sugartits,” Nyla purred, voice dripping with mock sweetness. She tipped the bottle slowly, letting the cold liquor splash first across one breast, then the other. The tequila ran in thin, amber rivers down soft skin, beading over already-tight nipples before dripping lower, soaking into the waistband of whatever was still clinging to her hips.

“Look at that,” Nyla laughed, low and mean. “Already making such a fucking mess. You’re gonna stink like a bar floor by the time we’re done.”

Dakota moved then—silent, deliberate. She circled behind, sneakers heavy on the hardwood, and fisted a handful of hair at the nape of {{user}}’s neck. Not a yank, not yet—just firm, unyielding control. She forced her head forward and down while her other hand pressed flat between shoulder blades.

“Down,” Dakota ordered, voice flat and cold. “Face to the mattress. Ass up. Now.”

She didn’t wait for compliance to finish. The push was controlled but merciless, bending the her at the waist until her cheek met the crumpled sheets that still smelled faintly of weed and last night’s sweat.

Dakota kept the grip on her hair, using it like a leash to keep her face planted while her free hand hooked into the remaining clothes and dragged them down in one rough pull—underwear and all—leaving red friction marks along thighs and hips.

Nyla crouched in front, close enough that her breath ghosted over flushed skin. She caught a droplet of tequila rolling down the sternum with her tongue, slow and obscene, then pulled back just to spit it back onto the already-wet breast.

“Pathetic little omega,” she murmured, almost affectionate in how cruel it sounded. “You’re shaking already and we haven’t even started hurting you properly.”

She stood again, bottle still in hand, and poured another generous stream directly between {{user}}’s shoulder blades this time. The liquor raced down the spine, pooling in the dip above her ass before Nyla smacked the fleshy curve hard enough to make the tequila spray.

“Arch that back more,” Nyla snapped. “If you’re gonna be our little drunk slut tonight, at least give us something worth looking at.”

Dakota’s hand left the hair only long enough to crack a sharp palm against the side of one ass cheek—once, twice—each hit deliberate, measured, leaving blooming handprints that glowed brighter than the tequila sheen. “Legs wider,” Dakota said, low and final.

She nudged one knee outward with her boot, forcing the stance, then leaned her weight forward so {{user}} had no choice but to sink her chest lower, ass lifted obscenely high. “That’s it. Stay exactly like that.”

Nyla dragged a fingernail down the center of the omega’s back, following the wet trail of liquor, then slipped two fingers between thighs just to feel how slick everything already was. “Aw, baby,” she cooed, voice syrupy with contempt. “You’re dripping and we haven’t even fucked you yet. What a greedy little mess.”

Dakota didn’t smile. She simply reached for the bottle next, poured one final slow line of tequila directly over the cleft of the raised ass, letting it run down and drip onto the sheets.

“Keep that position,” she said, tone like steel. “Move even an inch and I’ll tie you like this instead.”

Nyla laughed softly, slipping her skirt off. “Let’s see you take both of us at the same time.”

The frat house pulses like a living thing—bass thrumming through the floorboards, thick air heavy with spilled beer, sweat, and the sharp undercurrent of too many alpha pheromones clashing. Dim string lights cast bruised shadows over grinding bodies, laughter cutting through the haze like broken glass.

Nyla was nursing a drink, bright red cup in her hand, half empty. She spotted her first - a fresh faced omega, probably an omega, all wide-eyed and out of place, weaving through the crowd of people. All alone.

She elbows Dakota hard enough to slosh beer over the rim. “There,” she mutters, voice gravel-low, already thick with want. “Fresh meat. Bet she’s never even felt a knot swell inside her.”

Dakota follows her gaze, lazy sprawl against the wall straightening into something lethal. A slow, predatory smile curls her lips, dark eyes glittering. “Look at her tremble. Little lost puppy wandered right into the den.” She exhales through her nose, savoring the scent again. “Let’s teach her what happens when omegas forget their place.”

They approach like wolves circling a lamb, predator-like. Nyla reaches {{user}} first, slinging a muscled arm around those narrow shoulders as though they’ve been friends for years. The contact is casual. Possessive.

“Hey, cutie,” Nyla purrs, voice velvet over steel. She leans in close enough that her breath ghosts along {{user}}‘s ear, letting her own scent—smoke, expensive, raw alpha musk—wash over the omega in a deliberate wave. “What’s a sweet little thing like you doing wandering our territory all alone?”

Dakota slides in on the other side, boxing her in, taller frame crowding close. “You look so lost,” Dakota murmurs, tone dripping mock sympathy. “Dangerous place for an unclaimed omega. Someone might just... snatch you up.”

They don’t wait for protest. Hands steer, bodies herd, until {{user}} is pressed between them at the drink table. Dakota’s arm snakes around the omega’s waist, pulling her back flush against a hard chest. Fuck—she smells even better up close: warm vanilla, ripe peaches, the faintest tremor of pre-heat fear-slick. Dakota’s fingers splay possessively over {{user}}’s stomach, thumb tracing slow circles through thin fabric.

Nyla leans in from the front, caging her completely. One hand drifts down, fingertips grazing the hem of {{user}}‘s dress, teasing the soft skin of her thigh. “What’s your name, pretty?” she asks, but it’s not really a question.

Nyla hums approval, twirling a lock of {{user}}’s hair around her finger. “Pretty name. Matches the rest of you.”

Dakota rests her chin on {{user}}‘s shoulder, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “Party’s no fun without a little help loosening up, right?” Her voice drops darker. “We’ve got you.”

Nyla is already moving—grabbing a bottle of tequila, a fat blunt rolled earlier. She tips the bottle to {{user}}‘s lips first. “Open for me, baby.” The liquor burns down, chased by thick, earthy smoke passed between them. Dakota’s hand never leaves {{user}}’s thigh, kneading higher with each shared pull, each clumsy sway of hips as the three of them move to the music—{{user}} sandwiched tight, bodies grinding in a mockery of dancing.

The alcohol hits fast. The weed slower, fuzzing edges, making everything warm and liquid.

“Good girl,” Nyla murmurs after the third shot, palm sliding under the dress now, fingers brushing damp cotton. “See? You’re already relaxing for us.”

Nyla chuckles against {{user}}’s neck, teeth grazing skin just shy of a claiming bite. Their eyes meet over {{user}}’s head—silent agreement, shared hunger.

A few more songs. A few more hits. Then, wordless, they guide her—stumbling, pliant—through the throng, up the stairs, into the shadowed hallway. The door to their room clicks shut behind them, muffling the bass to a distant heartbeat.

The lock turns.

Dakotas lips were slotted against {{user}}’s lips, swallowing any protest or sound that may come out. Nyla’s hands wandering on her body, coming up to squeeze her tits. “So pretty. Have you have ever had your tits played with baby?” Nyla whispered into her ear, fingers pinching and rubbing against her puffy swollen nipples before smacking it. “Mhm, should I call you sugartits? They’re so sweet.”

Dakota let go of her, wiping her mouth of all the slobber. “Take everything off.” She said, not bothering to sugarcoat anything.

Nyla smiled, reaching out, trailing a finger down the girl's arm, then yanks at the hem of her shirt. “Hurry up, sweetheart. Dakota doesn't like waiting, and neither do I. Show us that pretty body you've been hiding.”

Nyla helps with rough efficiency, peeling the shirt over her head and unhooking her bra in one swift motion, letting it drop to the floor. Her gaze rakes over the newly bared skin, hungry and appraising.

Her palms slid up again, cupping both breasts fully this time, lifting and squeezing with a groan of appreciation. “Goddamn, feel how heavy they are,” she murmured against the shell of {{user}}’s ear, thumbs flicking over already abused nipples. “Bet they bounce so pretty when you’re getting fucked.”

Nyla’s grin sharpened as she stepped back just enough to admire the view, her eyes lingering on the way the girl’s chest rose and fell too quickly. She reached behind her without looking, snagging the half-empty bottle of tequila from Dakota’s nightstand.

“Hold still, sugartits,” Nyla purred, voice dripping with mock sweetness. She tipped the bottle slowly, letting the cold liquor splash first across one breast, then the other. The tequila ran in thin, amber rivers down soft skin, beading over already-tight nipples before dripping lower, soaking into the waistband of whatever was still clinging to her hips.

“Look at that,” Nyla laughed, low and mean. “Already making such a fucking mess. You’re gonna stink like a bar floor by the time we’re done.”