Venom Addict:

*LUCY*

When Tony gave me the card of a Direct Dealer, I was dubious. Getting Venom from a direct source has its risks, but I guess so does meeting up with your average run-of-the-mill drug dealer.

Personally, I've never gone Direct. Not that I've ever had the opportunity -- alphas willing to commit their face and name as well as their genetically traceable product for cash are rare. The logical route is to supply to a general dealer and just accept that they'll take a cut of the profit. But that does lead to a dodgy and unpredictable supply of Venom, which makes for unhappy (a.k.a desperate) customers. Like me. Right now.

'Fuck me, this is dumb.' I haven't ever heard of this Drew guy before Tony recommended him; and yet here I am, shifting my weight from foot to foot as I hover outside the address he sent me. I wish drug dealers had an app or something. I want reviews. As a single, agitated, and defenceless woman, I should be more careful. I really should.

At least Tony thinks he's... well, what? It's not like he spent time assuring me that I was completely safe and that his buddy Drew wouldn't skin my alive on sight. 'He's good for it,' is all he said as he slipped me the card. Like, an actual business card, on textured paper and everything. I guess he had been prepared to let me down when I showed up at our usual time, and he only had half the amount of Venom that I ordered, at a notably marked up price point.

I'd been here before, with other dealers. Alphas fall out of contact (or need for side cash) or decide to supply dealers that take less of a cut with zero notice. One day, my guy has practically a trench coat of Venom from a variety of different clean and safe alphas, and the next, there's half a dose with no certain origin for quadruple the price.

And I am definitely not proud to admit that that my little habit has forced my hand on occasion to buy the pricey unchecked leftover, desperate for some sort of hit before I'm forced to detox while I find another dealer. Average dealers' supply can also be patchy because of the nature of their wider audience. Normal people are smart enough to not form an addiction the Venom. Especially not Venom from one direct supplier -- that is a big no-no, both in a business sense and a personal sense. It's a party drug, or a short-lived experience, for those desperate enough to forgo pharmaceutical imitations. I've heard that in some countries, it can be prescribed, but the restrictions are firm. Definitely no two doses of a course from a single alpha.

That's why Direct Dealers are not common -- it can be a huge risk for them, too. What happens if someone becomes totally fixated on you and only you? I guess it's lucky that only male alphas can produce Venom, as I expect that would be an absolute nightmare for a woman.

I ring the doorbell again, rubbing my sleeve over my forearm for some friction. My skin feels like it's ready to peel off my body. I haven't had a dose in over a week, and my panicked body was triggered into menstruation because of it. Without Venom to ease the symptoms, this period has been a fucking nightmare. When I'm not in bed, groaning as my body twists itself up in agony, I've got my head in the toilet, vomiting until I feel as though I've been turned inside out. The only thing that got me out of the house was the biological drive towards a hope of Venom. *Venom, venom, venom*, my blood hummed, *sex, babies, sex, babies*.

*No babies*, I scold myself, pushing down that stupid archaic urge.

I'm distracted by the flutter of lace curtains and stand a little straighter. The house is much nicer than I expected it to be, but I guess being an alpha has its perks. That's another thing that limits supply of Venom -- alphas tend to do pretty well making money without needing to sell their own... I mean, the only thing I can think of that would drive an average alpha to want to illegally sell their own Venom is ego, which is another thing that makes me feel weird about Direct Dealers. The idea that they get off on people using their own product so intimately -- what it can do to people -- is off-putting. 'Pot calling the kettle black', I remind myself, and promptly fall down from my high horse.

The doorknob twists with a squeak, and a sliver of a man is revealed behind a chain. He's tall, which shouldn't surprise me as much as it does. He's an alpha -- of course he's tall. "Name?" He asks in a gruff voice, with makes the hair on my body twitch.

"Lucy," I tell him, trying to force some power behind my voice. I am not pathetic. I am just a customer seeking a product, which is perfectly normal in this capitalism hellscape of a society. Unfortunately for me, that product just so happens to be illegal and extremely intimate.

Most of his face is in shadow, and I briefly wonder if he's turned of all the lights in his house just so I can't make out anything. Another thing I find odd -- meeting at a dealer's house immediately, without building rapport. He must either have a hell of a screening system -- I don't even want to think about all the things he probably already knows about me -- or is very careless. "Reference number?" He asks, and I roll my eyes.

"Seriously?" I deadpan, both of us knowing that we have been texting since yesterday morning.

"Mmhmm." His tone is firm, no nonsense. Fucking alphas.

'At least I know he's the real deal', I think, taking out my phone and scrolling through our messages to find the code he's sent through. When I read it out, he nods, and I wonder if he has it memorised or is just making sure I know how seriously he takes this gig.

When the door swings open, I can see that he has definitely left his house dark intentionally, and remark, "You got night-vision, too?"

Instead of answering, he pulls back the hood of his hoodie and looks me up and down. Mostly down because he's fucking huge. Tall and broad. It does gross things to my biological impulses.

Instinctively, I avoid eye contact, looking anywhere else. His chin, his stubbled jaw, his thick, dark hair. But I *feel* his gaze burrowing into me, assessing. Alphas do that -- they stare. And it's infuriating, because I know that if I just casually stare back, like I would with any other regular rude beta, I'll be trapped. Meeting an alphas' eyes is extremely impolite and uncomfortable, especially if you don't know them well. Their gaze is domineering, which can tear down your guard without them even intending to.

His scent almost physically cripples me. It's thick and mossy; earthen. The bitter tang of suppressants does little to reduce it, especially in his dwelling, and the tidal wave of it is enough to make me dizzy. Alphas are socially expected to take suppressants, if only to pare back their musk enough to allow others to comfortably exist in their vicinity. Hell, I'm pretty sure it's government assisted -- if not completely free to all identified mature alphas. Same with omegas.

I've definitely noticed alpha coworkers' scents in their offices or in their cars, but the suppressants usually do a pretty good job of keeping it, well, suppressed under normal circumstances. If I can smell a suppressed alpha just existing, it usually means I'm nearing my heat cycle -- or low on Venom.

I try to focus on staying upright as he crosses his forearms over his broad chest. I stare at the space beside his ear, willing my blood to cool down and rubbing my sleeve over my upper arm, now. If my skin was peeling before, it's bubbling now. The churning in my stomach is similar to seasickness, but hot somehow. From my peripheral, I see him raise his eyebrows. I hope it's at my long pause rather than my reaction to him. I don't want to feed his ego any more than I already am.

I remember, suddenly, that a friend once told me that they sometimes hang up alpha-scented air fresheners at orgies -- to increase libido. The image of little pine tree ornaments dangling overhead as a group of oiled up bodies writhe below almost makes me laugh, which brings me out of my daze. Maybe Drew already has his toes in that market, too. Then, I imagine a cut-out of his face as a car air freshener dangling from my rear-view mirror and have to press my lips together to stop from scoffing.

He clears his throat, and in my embarrassment, I make the mistake of looking up at him. I meet his stare before I can stop myself, and my body warms again. Although his eyes are dark and his gaze heavy, they twinkle with something like amusement or bewilderment. I try to compose my features, make them impenetrable when they yearn to melt for him. This is dangerous, I decide. Direct Dealers are dangerous.

*DREW*

The first thing I realise when I open the door to my new buyer is that she's very pretty. The second thing is that she's on her period. The metallic, angry scent radiates from her, tugging at my breastbone. 'Swaddle, protect, soothe,' my instincts bark at me, even though I took my suppressant just this morning.

I frown at her, mind somehow going blank despite being completely prepared moments ago. "Name?" I finally ask, knowing the answer. Her name is Lucille Johnson, and she was referred to me by Tony, who has decided to dip out of supplying Venom for a bit.

'It's just too much work,' he complained as I looked over my new cards in his office, weeks ago. 'Do you like them?' He'd asked, eager for my reaction. 'Texture is all the rage these days, people don't want to touch gloss with a ten-foot pole,' he added. Tony's day job is at a print shop, and he insisted on making me personalised cards for my latest 'business endeavour'.

It seemed inconceivable to me that supplying Venom could possibly be too much work, but I guess being able to directly, naturally, and reliable produce it takes a lot of steps out of the process. It would suck to be the middleman, especially when alphas have no incentive to commit to supplying consistently.

I met Tony a few years ago, back when I was in the federal narcotics department. To put it simply, he was our rat -- we had an arrangement wherein he supplied us information on the alleged alphas that were supplying Venom to minors or related to gang activity. We always suspected that he only gave the names of the dodgy suppliers that pissed him off.

Even when I was reassigned to forensics after getting shot, he insisted on keeping in contact. For years, he'd hinted that there was a high demand for alphas in his... industry. I'd never imagined I'd be finally taking him up on it.

'Do you know how annoying it is to follow up with a dozen different alphas on regular STI checks and documentation,' so I know that their product is clean? He'd shrugged, 'Chemical stuff is just way more straight forward -- biological material is slippery and inconsistent.'

'Surely it's not that different,' I'd given him a sidelong glance, and he pressed his lips together.

'Believe it or not, the alpha-beta dynamic makes it hard to make demands.' He'd seemed pouty about this, his ego fragile after having to bend to shitty suppliers. That fragile ego also led him to snitch on the guys who crushed it -- if nothing else, it was a great way to get revenge without getting hit by the alpha-beta submission thing. Indirect payback.

'Right,' I'd conceded, 'I guess that makes sense.' Alphas can be dicks -- even I know that. They can have authority complexes and be power hungry, which doesn't mix well with a drug produced through their primal urges.

'It's also just gross having to deal with someone else's come, no matter how much it's worth', he'd shuddered, scrawling down something on a notepad.

Something sharp and deep had rumbled with indignity as I'd snapped at him, 'It's not come.'

His shoulders had immediately wilted in submission at my tone, 'Right, sorry.' Avoiding my eyes, he tore the paper from the pad and held it out to me like a peace offering.

I plucked it from him, tucking the new business cards into my bag. 'What's this?'

Head hung slightly (which was starting to make me feel bad for snapping and triggering his panicked submission instincts), he'd told me: 'A list. It's rough, but an idea of some pretty regular customers I'll be sending your way.'

Regular -- that meant people that Tony trusted. Within reason. When I'd started running this gig on the side, I'd told him that I only ever wanted customers that were screened to the max. Transparent and traceable, just to make sure that they weren't cops or dangerous in any way.

When I'd asked why there was a star beside the name Lucy, he'd tilted his head in thought, considering his wording.

"Reference number?" I ask, double checking the slip of paper taped to the paper package that rests on the bench by the door.

"Seriously?" She drawls, which catches my attention. It almost makes me smile with disbelief, her snarky attitude. She concedes and pulls up our messages in her phone, searching for the number I sent through yesterday. That same number is entered into a spreadsheet that keeps track of all my orders, as well as other information, like stock levels. Low, the stock reading had glowered at me when I last checked it. I swear that I had replenished it just days ago.

That thought has me glancing down at her mouth, and my cock twitches. Without permission, my gaze travels down to her neck, which is slender and pale. The skin is thin, soft, and there's an ache in the back of my jaw that forces me to wonder what her nape would feel like between my teeth. The sound she would make when my teeth bit down on her mating gland. What it would taste like.

When she starts reading the number from her phone, my attention snaps back to her face. Her tone is controlled, but irritation flows beneath.

This amuses me when it should annoy me. Maybe it's her scent, bitter with discomfort, that redirects my reaction from anger to endearment. Or the dark circles beneath her eyes -- has her pain been so severe that she's unable to sleep? And why the fuck do I care?

As a first-time customer, she should be on her best behaviour -- yet her frown tells me that she might have given me a one-star rating, if she could.

Her frown. My focus is drawn back to her lips, and my pants feel much tighter than they did a moment ago. Before I started thinking about my mouth on her throat.

'Get it together,' I scold myself, 'she's just another customer.' Maybe I'm nearing my rut. I nod to myself - that will be good for business at least; I'll be producing plenty of Venom. My logistical line of reasoning fills the deeper, primal part of me with heated disdain. That part of me wants to be knotted and mated for life immediately, and that's not going to happen any time soon.

'Waste, waste, waste,' it whines every time I set up to produce and bottle my Venom, no mate in sight. It reaches for something that isn't there, someone that doesn't exist.

I try to shake off the protest of cavernous yearning that the thought produces, ignoring the heat that has bloomed down my neck.

The door yawns open as I step out more fully and Lucy perks up slightly at the new vantage point, craning to look behind me. I feel like a hermit answering the door with all the lights off and the curtains drawn, but the less my customers know about me, the better. Even though I thoroughly screen them all and my house has maximum security, I'd just prefer customers not see too many details.

This customer isn't too happy about that, apparently. "You got night-vision, too?" She jokes, but it has a bite to it. Just like everything about her, I'm starting to realise.

And again, I'm bewildered to find that it doesn't make me want to slam the door in her face. In fact, it's making the heat at my neck prickle more intensely, so I tug my hood back and down to get a better look at her. Or intimidate her. Maybe both.

Her demeanour wanes and I immediately feel guilty for my reaction. She's very clearly already on edge, and if the sudden shift in her scent is anything to go by, she's just been hit with another wave of dizziness or nausea from her period. Fuck, she smells like she must be absolutely miserable.

Usually, I'm pretty level-headed around menstruation -- I like to hope so, at least. Like a lot of other hormone-driven scents, it can illicit a sympathetic reaction, especially from alphas, who are generally more sensitive to that sort of thing.

In another lifetime, it would have been beneficial -- if not essential -- for an alpha to understand where any of their pack members were hormone-wise. Specifically those with a uterus. Thus, the empathetic reaction is biologically motivated, to ensure an alpha can properly understand the needs and care for members of their pack.

In this lifetime, it's like ignoring someone who has just been hit by a truck -- but there are four of them in the small crowd waiting to cross a road with you. Alphas are taught from a young age how to regulate their gut reactions to these observations. If we didn't, we'd never get anything done.

Lucy has vagued out again, staring at the space beside my head. She's avoiding my eyes, which is pretty standard for betas upon meeting an alpha. But for some reason, a part deep inside of me bristles, demanding the intimacy of her gaze. That's ridiculous, though -- sometimes the alpha in me feels more like a petulant child than the commanding, powerful entity that the world imagines it to be.

I clear my throat and my insides jolt as she meets my eyes. *Yes. Good.* I just about feel my chest puff up in elation, a sense of steadiness settling over me as I bore into her, watching her pupils swallowing up the honey brown of her iris. This way I can see more deeply her pain, the distress and fear that eats her from the inside. Anger and resentment. And -- my stomach drops in recognition -- a loneliness.

The sensation makes me reel, the intrusion overwhelming. It's not usually this intense, the empathy (commiseration?). I look away, busying myself with her package.

'It must be her period,' I tell myself, trying to understand why I was able to open her up so deeply, so sharply. 'Back to business.'

I clear my throat, which is suddenly thick with -- what, exactly? "You have the money?"

She purses her lips -- probably absolutely pissed off about having her emotions intruded on by a total stranger -- and rummages in her bag. Finally, she passes me an envelope, which seems oddly formal. She keeps her chin down as her hand extends to pass it to me, and I briefly spot the lowercase beta symbol printed on her inner wrist.

Once I've ruffled through the notes and counted them up, I hand her the brown package. She's immediately suspicious, peeking inside to analyse the contents.

"This isn't my order," she grumbles, glaring into the bag, "I wanted double what's here."

I try not to grin at her, assuring, "You'll get it." And when she points her glare at my mouth -- as close to my eyes I'm guessing she's willing to go after what just happened -- I add, "I don't fill such big orders with first time customers all at once."

It takes her a moment to understand my meaning. "You think I'm selling?" She snaps, shaking her head in disbelief. "You think I would sell Venom from an alpha I don't even know?"

I look her up and down, taking in her small frame and oversized sweater. Not exactly as threatening as I had in mind when Tony explained the star beside her name.

'I'd keep an eye on her,' he'd told me, almost apologetically.

'Why are you sending her to me if you don't trust her?' I'd been annoyed -- he knew I liked to be careful with my customers.

'She's a regular,' he'd assured me, 'and she buys a lot.' When I'd gestured for him to expand, he'd just emphasised, 'like *a lot*.'

I'd nodded, beginning to understand. So, she'd be a steady stream of income, but...

He'd shaken his head, trying to not look too concerned about a near total stranger. 'I mean, she's either dealing herself, or she's got a real problem.'