Chapter Text
The first time was on a whim. As the most insidious situations begin.
Because she lets her pride get the best of her. With her status its a given, however biologically its been its her undoing.
Is it so ludicrous, though, to know what one wants, when in her circumstance? Young as she is, not even 25 and in charge of more money and assets than most see in their life time. Responsibility thrown upon her the second she exited the womb.
Monikers that assign themselves the older she grows. Be it the tan of her skin, or the accursed dynamics of the world.
Aside from power in capital, she comes from a family of oddities—outcasts. Those with ‘gifts’ that came with no receipt for the general public who cared only for complacency.
Hence, the open market that some Addams (dating far, far back with many a portrait on her family alter in memoriam) a century or so ago had found stake.
Rather, a pretty patent that came to be Addams & Co.
And so she walks these steps as her father did and his before. Nowadays, theres a far more convenient elevator and even more to her solitude and delight came her own office.
She’s unsure why she decided to agree on an outdoor restaurant meeting, vs the sanctity of their company building. Some sniveling man that wanted funding for his fairy dust recipe. A ‘family secret’ that had been of vague intrigue…up until he tried to blow it in her face.
She’s still grumbling about it by the time she’s back at the office. She decided to accept a post meeting exchange with one of her employees, after this particularly grueling pitch day. There was only more to come, with it barely being noon.
Products that needed her say so, from suits all but on their knees to kiss her ass. The only goal was her pockets to invest into their cause. At least they didn’t send another human this time, with ‘good’ intentions and ignorant wording.
Its her assistant that wants to speak with her now, however. She normally doesn’t bid him much other than her second coffee order, or mumbled greeting this time of day.
He had his hair tied in a bun, navy suit jacket unbuttoned and looking at her dopily. A wave with fluttering, ring covered fingers, because he’s feeling cheeky and knows it won’t be reciprocated.
Wednesday only kept him because he was good at talking. Had saved her the loss of multiple stockholders that were otherwise off put by her lack of manners and bored monotone.
She had no need or desire to schmooze—she was inheriting an empire, not building one.
“You need to relax, boss.” Kent, her doting assistant and unfortunately charming siren boy. He had eery blue eyes that would look quite handsome as a broach, especially if he said the wrong thing. “Come out with us tonight. Drinks on me!”
They sit across from each other in her office. Surrounded by deep, dark old wood and taxidermy. Not many people entered and lived to tell the tale—thats what the designated meeting rooms were for. Her office was personal.
She only just returned, so she wanted to compare notes. Kent typically paid more attention—she paid him to.
Strictly business.
Naive, perhaps…to think this could stay professional with a born wordsmith. Even if she knew he’d never use his song against her if he wanted to live a full life.
So she snorts, making a display of the way she grabs her handle and empty glass. Plops an ice cube in before settling at her desk with the half emptied bottle. Kent places his hands on his hips as she pours, before settling proper in her leather seat.
“I’m no more interested than the last time you propositioned me.” She had her own drink now, anyhow. A glass of dark rum, the same as her father kept at the desk when he was CEO.
Kent was not one to be deterred. In fact he somehow always had an answer no matter how asinine. Perhaps thats why she’s assed to agree for once. If not his keen eye and higher senses.
”Early meeting tomorrow?” He prompts, to which she looks unimpressed.
”Funny…” She drawls, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms. “I thought you were paid to know my schedule already.”
He waves her off, then cups his chin to inspect further. The cogs and wheels of his meager brain looked to be working double time.
”Then…what other excuse could you—“
He squints at her for a moment, before his eyes widen. He looks at her in conspiracy, checking around as if they aren’t the only ones in the office. He even clumsily trips up to the door to make sure its locked. Then, he sits carefully across from her to lean over.
Her eye is twitching in annoyance before he begins to say something idiotic.
“Is it…your cycle?” He whispers the word and holds up his hands with a sheepish laugh before she can bite his head off. “Hey! Its no judgement here—we’re both omegas…like omeg-bros!”
Another reason she hired him, albeit it makes her cringe in the worst way in this moment. The casual mention of both their status, along with the downright foolish nickname.
A freshly cleaned dagger lodged itself directly in front of the siren boy. He yelps, but sheepishly meets her glaring eye.
“Never mention anything of the sort in front of me ever again.” She clips out, leaning back in her office chair. Its leather, vintage and with imprint of her father before her.
The desk had been his too. Large and crafted by hand, like a median between her peace and sanity.
It still didn’t feel like enough space between them.
“C’mon, I didn’t mean anything by it…” Kent whines, even pouting his pitiful, guppy lips. She doesn’t snap at him so he keeps talking, “Mines coming up too, you know? We’re synced cause we spend so much time together.”
She takes a languid gulp from her glass, before she even entertains this conversation.
“I know better than to be ruled by nonsensical whims.” She replied evenly, albeit she had started to drum her fingers on the desk. “I deal with it alone and will continue to.”
Kent looks shocked, to which she rolls her eyes and prepares for some diluted version of what her mother had told her. Her omega mother that swore she knew whats ‘best.’ That she had hindsight, foresight—
“My dear, I’ve seen it all…you will learn to accept yourself…someday.” With that cryptic way she crooned, ever since she was a little girl.
Wednesday didn’t want to be anything an omega should be.
Didn’t want to be anything like her mother.
She took supplements and learned to dull her scent through sheer willpower. Though, her solitude didn’t make her issue much of an actual problem before.
She didn’t fall at her feet the second some knot-headed alpha decided to try her hand. She would sooner plug her nose and turn her head. The simpering, subservient thing in her skull was but an obstacle to work around.
No matter how much she’s told otherwise. No matter what she’s witnessed. She felt above those hormone ridden urges.
Had never been the type to push out her own scent to get what she wants, either. She had too many memories of her mother doing so, playing her love struck father like a fiddle.
Gomez Addams, Alpha and CEO, retired early with his wife Morticia and their children…
Wednesday, their first born, to pick up the pieces of their post nest bliss. Ugh.
Even her siblings became useless, with Pugsley having found himself a ‘mate’ before he’d graduated high school. Decided he didn’t want to follow the family business. Shacked up with an Omega girl and already awaiting their wedding date. Of which she’s yet to RSVP out of spite.
And Pubert, the youngest was far too much so to run things properly and finish his education. He hadn’t even presented past the subtle beta smell that lingers until second puberty.
And so that left her—apparently the only one in the family with a backbone.
Though, her parents quite liked Kent too, come to think of it. Her father had approved and recommended him in the first place, having worked with others in his coven. The siren being more of the diplomatic omega stereotype that she avoided.
She’d never shame anyone for how they live their life…she simply chose to do different.
Her solitary life had been upheld and sacred. Never bothered, nor did she feel any need to stray her well beaten path.
“Like…alone-alone?” Kent’s gawking brings her back to present. Back to the subject that felt like a poorly healed wound under the thin gauze of her suit. “As in you never…?”
He makes an up-down motion with his hands, jerking obscenely, before making a face indicating he’d grossed himself out as well.
Wednesday narrows her eyes in a dangerous way.
“I do believe this line of questioning is far above your pay grade, so I would tread lightly.” She holds her hands in front of her, cupped atop her writing area. Kent shrinks just a bit as she bites, “Lest I decide I need siren scales to decorate the sheath of my newest hatchet.”
He doesn’t look afraid of her. No, he never has been, not really. He took her insults like water to oil—they never earnestly struck him personally. Because, unfortunately he knows her so.
He just looks at her like she’s something to analyze and understand, that shifts into a sigh and smoothing out the hair on his head.
“Its not a weakness to have urges, dude, its like…” He frowns, struggling to find words. He almost sounds offended, to her intrigue, “scratching an itch? Relieving the pain—heat cramps suck ass, even with suppressors.”
Its the fairest point he’s made. Bringing up that word…weak.
She was not weak. And her urges didn’t make her feel weak, necessarily. The whiney parasite in her minds eye that she’d been long warned of was but a nuisance.
A necessary evil, like a red light or filing taxes.
Wednesday never cared to dig deep enough into mindless things like arousal to find a better analogy. It was all mundane to her. She’s always found lust in metaphorical sense—
Like that of blood or violence…depends on the occasion.
When she was young, her father had many a hobby.
He was a fine chef, when he had the time. Plenty of it was spent in the kitchen, tending to her and her mother, eventually her siblings as well. Her father with his butcher’s knife and glint in his eye as it struck flesh.
He’d always had an eye for game and sense of direction for tracking. He used to take her hunting, spending hours bait and switching until the perfect buck came under barrel of his rifle.
You never forget your first kill.
She doesn’t know if any pleasure could compare. Her accolades and capital aside, as she’s always been taken care of.
No illusion in that. She’s been spoiled rotten. Littered in mold that had made patches around her heart.
Perhaps thats why it doesn’t immediately take her. Why she’s letting Kent squirm before returning his pity.
“What do you suppose I do?” She asks eventually. Levels the siren with her stare and dares him to test her, “Say I humor your insistent prodding in my personal life…you obviously have a pitch. Well, lets hear it then.”
This was a domain she could find comfort.
At her desk, with a subordinate attempting to earn her favor. Alpha and omega clientele alike tried to do business, or buy share with the most successful outcast run company this side of the Atlantic. And she gave them all the same equal treatment in eye of her apathy.
Kent gives a determined nod, fishing in his pocket for his wallet. He flips through it for a moment, before he finds a slightly bent up card.
He slides it over
“Figured your geriatric eyes would prefer a physical card.” He quips, grinning at her in self satisfaction. “They offer complete confidentiality.”
Wednesday plucks the card up with a careful flick of her fingers. She eyes the ornate script—the calling card for a escort business.
/////////////////////////////
☾ Nevermore’s Nest ☾
~
Never be lonely again
///////////////////////////
It strikes another nerve she apparently has.
“Tell me…your gold fish memory didn’t cause you to forget who you’re propositioning, hmm?” She throws a good insult in after scanning the card for a few more moments. She’d be amused if not for the reason she’s holding it in the first place.
They offered confidentiality alright, along with fantasy and safe, sane, consensual activity.
Kent scoffs his offense once more.
“What? I’ve done it before—its no strings attached, they use fake names, encrypted payments—“
“Its sex work.” Wednesday interrupts, speaking very matter of factly. She raised a brow at the lack of argument, “I have nothing against it, however I prefer not to attach certain things to our already unfavorable reputation.”
Amongst the dumpster fire of nepotism and inheriting a company with admirers and multiple forms of capital…it brought enemies. Along with her father’s previously more cut throat business methods leaving a particular taste in the general media’s mouth.
Mostly conservatives and old money feuds, along with the gripes about her age from her own shareholders. Neither outcasts or non-white individuals were necessarily favorable, even with money.
Not many people knew her status as an omega for a reason.
“Mr. Gomez been on you about your attitude again, huh?” Kent jokes and Wednesday only sighs to herself. “Even on vacation he just can’t stay away from business…must be where you get it.”
Business and tall Omega women…Wednesday only related to the first bit, fortunately.
Her parents were a state or so away, likely a country by now. Their…fiftieth honeymoon or something of the sort. It made her skin crawl.
Her heat falling so close was more insulting than anything else. A cruel joke of the universe.
She’s more likely to spend her heat in a heightened state of anger and irritability vs desire. Thats what she’s always preferred at least. What she firmly stated to her parents whenever they questioned her personal life.
She blows air through her nose, but keeps the card in her white knuckled hand.
“Yes, and I’m sure they would prefer to spend it in ignorant bliss…you wouldn’t want to interrupt with your transgressions,” Wednesday starts with a raised brow, taking in the way Kent gulps. “…Do you?”
Just as quickly as he’d planted himself down, Kent’s hopping to his feet. He shuffles with his tie and checks for imaginary lint on his pants as he looks for an excuse.
“Say, I think finance needed me to come look at…s-something?” He mumbles the end bit, like an incomplete thought.
Wednesday doesn’t budge, watching him eerily up until his hand reached her door handle.
“Oh, Kent?” She calls, lip curling just slightly when his shoulders lock up. He doesn’t face her and she doesn’t wait for him to either, “Do refrain from soliciting any other of my employees with…such.”
She twirls the card between her fingers the same way she knows he’s seen her play with her knife. He laughs, albeit followed by awkward clearing of his throat.
“Right, boss.” He leaves with a nod and final smile that she doesn’t return, but she never does.
And even when he’s gone she doesn’t relax. She can’t—hasn’t been.
Its been happening…again. Getting worse. The card stock only seemed to mock her, the material like molten metal on her fingertips. Brought more attention to the flush that threatened to stretch up past her chest.
As if the insolent siren had known she’d been struggling. No, not struggling—she doesn’t struggle. She’s simply learning to best it.
Still…
She keeps the card despite herself.
/
“Its not weird, I’ve done it.” Bianca, the other meddling siren in her life, says with a shrug.
They’re at brunch, because thats something the mermaid girl enjoys. Likes the process and feel of it all, along with snapping pictures of every drink before she takes a sip.
She liked getting ‘dolled up,’ doing her makeup and morning routine. Her dress was a fine blue silk, along with the golden jewelry insisted upon…though she’s likely going to complain later when she gets food on her ring.
Wednesday could care less for either meals, let alone a culmination of two. Eating was often a hassle for someone to remind her of later. And she never wore much other than a suit, aside from when she laid to rest.
But, Bianca was a childhood friend.
Rather, a person she’d known in high school who hadn’t dropped her number and ignored her glares when she wanted to be alone. These sirens seemed to acclimate around her like a disease spreading.
Though, they would probably call it charm.
“So I’ve been told,” Wednesday sips at the mimosa she’s been roped into. Its not the worst—it loosened her up to the conversation.
The ‘business’ card that was now in Bianca’s manicured fingers. The main subject.
She’s playing with it now. Had already had her fill of ribbing Wednesday for even owning it. Laughed her way through a drink and finally to the part of her game that held the brutal honesty.
“Its honestly easier than trying to date around the public,” Bianca continues, with a far more logical backing to her experience. “Would you rather some club hook up tell the tabloids your favorite position? Or a lil one and done at a fair price?”
A much more logical and fair point.
Wednesday takes a larger gulp from her drink, foregoing the straw. Places the cup back down with a harsh clink, before looking at the siren.
“This normally isn’t a problem I have to tend to.” She says after a while, in a brief show of vulnerability. With her monotone and blank eyes—most of the turmoil was going on in her brain. “Its been…difficult, recently.”
She hates to call it anything. Hates the heat under her skin and the increasingly timid nature of her own biology.
The last time her cycle had barreled through her body, like a steel drum. Had knocked her off her feet and into a pool of dense, murky water that she couldn’t navigate. Couldn’t swim to the top no matter how much her l useless, desperate hands work against the currents. Left soaked and choking on the consequence in her lungs.
Why now? In her 23 years, why now?
“I mean no ones forcing you to get dicked down and mated—and I know I’m one to talk, or whatever.” Bianca refers to her unspoken title as an Alpha between the two of them. The only Alpha she really spoke to, if not only for their complete lack of attraction.
On both ends. Trust, both their parents had unfortunately barked up that tree to no avail. She thinks Bianca would be better castrated.
But, she didn’t worry about herself in this situation. Most other alphas tended to think with only one thing. Bianca was similar to her in the way she carried herself, regal and above it all. Though, far more sexual prowess.
Always a new Omega or Beta of the week. She’s only met a few victims, watching her old friend toot them about like arm candy. Though, never did it reflect on her. She was an Alpha, of course.
An eligible bachelor to her mother’s fortune. As so it goes. Wednesday didn’t have it in her to feel bitter about it anymore. She’d prove nature wrong, regardless.
She twirls her glass a bit, decorative umbrella lolling with her straw and ice chattering.
“Ultimately my only goal is control.” Wednesday says to the surprise of no one listening. “Perhaps I’ve had more choice with this than I’ve led myself to believe.”
/
She fiddled with the ‘Macbook’ with grunts of frustration and a half finished glass of dark liquor on her side table. One of about 3 she’d wolfed down so far, to find the nerve to even dig the white box out that held the equipment.
She acquired assistance from her ‘roommate’ of sorts. The faithful hand that stayed with her after her father’s departure from head of the company. He had been doing most of the actual set up after finally unpacking everything and setting it on the life source—or, charger as Thing called it.
An Addams family secret—Thing knew the ins and outs of the building and company history. Had been with her father and his father before him.
Yet still more technologically inclined, with his combined decades (centuries?).
Thing had chuckled best he could as but a limb. Because, it’s absolutely hysterical that she doesn’t know how to use the technology that she did bother to own.
“It was a gift,” Wednesday deadpans, unimpressed with the fact that she’s being bested by a machine. A delicately thin piece of machinery at that.
She was offered many freebies and discarded tech, but she usually just gave it to her brothers or whoever working that day had use for it. It was a brand new model with extremely sensitive buttons and temperamental monitor.
Thing had helped her set up an account—a heinous amount of work just to turn the darned thing on.
“Why on Earth is it called a Safari?” She asks of the browser icon. She’s not completely inept as to not know how to use Google, but the methods to get to one place were quickly becoming egregious.
The names simply made it difficult for sport.
‘You should be good from here. I have an appointment booked for my cuticle repair, just use the messages and type something if you need me!’
He points out a few applications, including the iMessage box. She squints at it for a long time, before nodding.
She’s grateful he’s not asking why she suddenly unboxed the Apple products that had been sitting in her broom closet. He only leapt into action, thankfully assuming it had something to do with business. She supposed it was technically serious.
Though, not at all dire…she was browsing the internet for mere pleasure.
Ugh.
The website for the service pulls up with minimal effort. A passcode was required to enter, to which Kent had given her his. It had been scrawled on the back of the card in lieu of her changing her mind. Part of her wants to stab him for assuming she would.
The other is far to prideful to outright speak about the subject again. To let him know he was hauntingly correct. She grips the computer mouse with clawed hands, not wanting to linger—like pulling the bandage off.
Another layer of security with a sign in and questions to allow her access.
A majority was taken care of with Kent’s access, though she hesitates when her state issued ID is required. The screen tells her it would be a few business days to verify, but she would be free to browse the services.
Wednesday doesn’t know if she has the gall to purchase quite yet.
Its decidedly non offending website management. She’s not much on the subject of web design of course. She thinks the purple is probably fitting—royal and plush like fabric. Something to run your hand across.
She guesses. Its not tacky or tasteless as her internal bias may believe.
And Its not like she has a terrible, stereotypical view of sex workers. Never narrow minded, albeit narrow sighted when it came to most things.
She respected the hustle of good business—sex was just something she herself wasn’t aligned with. Had never really been one for it. She got her rocks off watching the way that people who underestimated her stature crumble and fail.
She’s only really attempted masturbation in moments of lowly urge. It only left her frustrated, unsatisfied and further steered away from the subject.
Even the thought sits uneasy in her stomach.
A handful of heats (all of which had been within the last miserable year) she couldn’t simply sleep off, triggered by stress or whatever else ailed her spirit. Its easier to keep thinking of it like drowning.
Sinking far below to depths she’s not only ignorant, but woefully blind.
It made her head hurt to analyze.
She closes her heavy eyes for a rare moment of meditation. Way back when, she’d attended therapy—her Dr. had called it a ‘grounding technique.’ She was hard pressed to ever admit it genuinely helped when she’s overwhelmed.
Soon enough she’s able to loosen her collar. Run a hand over back of her neck and exhale.
Realizes she’d been so out of it, rushing to get the computer set up; she was still in her full suit. She sheds her blazer, hanging it near the door and then rolls up her sleeves to cuff. Her socked feet against the cold wood floors lead her to the bar.
Another glass on the rocks. She liked cold and rationalized this short of an ice bath. She’s obviously beginning to show. Theres no other reason for the sweat on her brow. Or her feeling so affected over something so asinine.
She sits back at the computer with her liquor, newly determined. This was means to an end.
To regain—to keep control.
Scrolling through different avenues, she realizes that the services were not only catered to heavy wallets, but outcasts that owned them. The option to pick by species, along with ratings and offered services. A fun fact about each one, as cheesy tag line.
More than one had to do with a favorite ‘position.’
Her jaw is tight and teeth clenched to hell, but she knows her face is blood red with mortification.
She’s never spent her heat with another person. Isn’t sure of all the intricacies, because she refused to let her mother taint her judgement. Blissfully ignorant as her parents often spent their cycles in their other properties.
Though—…she’d rather not think of them. It helps even less.
Makes her feel uncomfortable, as she’s already clicking through scantily clad women. Making an account for an escort service’s website. She feels prudish, like the conservative men that plot her business’s downfall.
Theres too many options to the point she almost gives up. She blushed every last bit of blood in her body on the page about boundaries and limits of different employees. Types of play and kink offered that hadn’t ever crossed her mind when looking at rope or handcuffs.
Upon returning to the base page, she happens to note a section advertised in rotation.
Take the Compatibility Quiz *here*
(Great for beginners!)
The option to list her needs, her attributes, etc. and allow the machine to decide for her.
She holds her breath at the form as it loads. Its simple enough to start, only asking her name, age and status. Clicking Omega opens a pit in her stomach. Next her experience levels and if she’s done this before.
Obviously not. She nearly snorts.
It varies from mundane to questions that light the tip of her ears an even brighter red, but she gets her answer. After watching the swirling icon twirl and pop up with an animation of ravens uncovering a body.
A well rated girl, with blonde hair and impish grin.
She had terribly colorful highlights to the ends of her hair, but the photo held more pressing matters.
It was a nearly full shot, showcasing her white bra and boy shorts that did little to hide much of anything. A staged backdrop to add…something.
She couldn’t really focus on things like lighting, right now. She scoffs at herself, at the way she’s not even met this girl in person and she’s feeling her own nerves.
Not nervous—far from it. In fact theres this latent thing, almost like excitement. It has her taking a heaving gulp of drink and adjusting her pant leg; the color white had never looked so enticing. She’s never looked at another person like this, either.
Can’t decide how it makes her feel other than hot for lack of anything else. She can barely peel her eyes away for much other than to glance at her description.
Ophelia. Her name was Ophelia.
She was an Alpha. Same age as her and same city.
She stares at her results for a long time. Thanks god that she doesn’t have to decide anything yet—technically she couldn’t. Background checks and verification of income still pending. The covertness of it being the only thing reassuring to her tensed body.
She takes a long sip from her glass until its gone completely.