A/N: if you don't know what a/b/o or knotting is, please consider consulting fanlore before getting on this ride. no refunds will be given if you don't enjoy it. the science in this fic is real but cobbled together like a conceptual frankensteinian monster, so if anyone reading this is a science-type person, please forgive me.
the title comes from the poem 'lunar moth.' dear carl phillips, i am so sorry.
The physiological and psychological stresses of estrus cannot be overstated. For many people with Lýkos Chromosomal Inversion Omega Type, it is a phase marked by extremes of suffering and distress for which there is little to no relief.
—Dr. Nisreen Waelsch, ABOmination: A Natural History of Lýkos Chromosomal Inversion
. . .
It feels a lot like the flu at first. Aching muscles, a slight fever, and a lower-than-usual tolerance for people in general all gnaw at the edges of Vic's awareness for a couple of days when Walt comes back to work. After one of his particularly dickish displays, she has the spiteful thought that he probably gave it to her. He came back just to be an asshole and get her sick on purpose.
When the symptoms worsen beyond her ability to ignore, she tries to kill whatever it is with aspirin and a handful of chalky vitamin C tablets from a bottle she didn't even remember she had. They're out of date but she figures they're worth a shot.
It might be the placebo effect, but she does find that the worst of her fever and aches ease for a while, so she doesn't care too much about the reason why. Still, by the time she's finished writing up her report on the Delia Garrett murder, Vic's feeling flushed and fuzzy-headed, worse than before.
Her shift is long over and for the first time in weeks there's no reason to feel guilty about leaving the station. She isn't in charge anymore.
Light spills from under Walt's closed door when she glances down the hallway. Not that long ago she would've used the excuse of letting him know she was heading out to squeeze in a few more minutes of his company. Tonight she doesn't even bother to say goodbye. There's a good chance that if she has to look at his face one more time she might just go ahead and punch him.
Getting outside into the cool air makes her feel better. She drives to Cady's with the windows rolled down and the biting wind is like heaven on her skin. The place is dark when she arrives, Cady's car missing from the driveway. Vic parks on the street as usual and has to really work to get up the steps and into the house. She doesn't bother turning on any lights, just heads straight for her room and starts stripping off her clothes the second the door's shut. In her tank top and underwear, she collapses into bed, hoping sleep will kick whatever it is out of her system.
. . .
She wakes in the pitch dark, already knowing something is very wrong.
Fever is burning her up from the inside. Vic feels like she's standing under the blazing midday sun at the height of summer. Something like an itch has burrowed its way into every nerve ending, every sensitive place she has. Her skin can barely stand the touch of her clothes or the sheets. When she gets out of bed she stumbles and almost falls, disoriented and clumsy. Trying to switch on the bedside lamp only succeeds in knocking it over.
Groping through layers of shadows, driven by the need to cool down, she manages to open her door. The porch light shining through the front windows is enough for her to make her way to the bathroom. She steps straight into the shower and turns the cold water on as hard as it will go. The spray strafes her skin like tiny, icy bullets, but she welcomes the pain. It spears through the fuzz and static in her head, allowing her some space to think.
For a few minutes Vic just stands there, bent nearly double with dizziness. Gradually the feeling that she's being smothered eases and she can take deeper breaths. When she's able to hold herself upright, she lifts her face and opens her mouth to the water, drinking what she can and letting the rest dribble away.
She's so hot, still, underneath the relief of the spray. What had felt like an itch before is now more of a restless wanting. Like something's missing deep below her skin. She runs her fingers over the rigid bumps of gooseflesh on her arms and feels a strange pang echo inside her. It opens into a corrosive emptiness that hollows her out. All that's left is a terrible yearning for something she can't name.
Without knowing why, Vic digs her nails into her flesh. The bite calms her a little, so she does it again, and then again, and keeps going. But it's like scratching at a real itch: the relief is only temporary. She digs and the problem gets worse. She digs.
Time is meaningless until her muscles begin to cramp from the cold. She's shivering and covered with red crescent-shaped marks from her nails, some of which are deep enough to bleed. The thin trickles of red turn pink as they flow downstream from her skin to the shower floor.
Frightened and confused, Vic begins to cry.
Her thoughts are incoherent and panicked. She doesn't remember doing this to herself. Every inch of her body aches because she needs something, but she doesn't know what it is. A deep and primal certainty tells her that If she goes much longer without it, she'll die.
Though the belief might be irrational, Vic knows she has to get help. Her head's all mixed up and and she's sick. She needs help. But she can't fucking think. She needs to go somewhere to get help, go to someone, someone who'll help her. She needs to go.
As soon as she turns off the cold water the fever roars up and she's burning again. Shaking and unsteady, she leans her forehead against the cold wall of the shower. It feels so good that she presses first one cheek and then the other to the tile, then as much of the front of her body as she can manage.
Her wet skin on the wet tile creates an almost frictionless slide. In a daze, she starts rubbing herself against the wall. Her breasts are heavy and tender; her nipples are painfully hard. Vic reaches up to pinch one, squeezing her thighs together, and feels almost nothing. Even sliding her fingers down to rub her clit at the same time barely registers.
She's so swollen and wet and aching that she wants to scream. But the more she tries, the less sensation she feels. Her body is primed for something she can't give it. Huge and feral, the emptiness inside her eclipses desire, eclipses lust. It's ready to split her skin, crush her bones, rend her flesh to get satisfaction.
She needs somebody to help her, to take care of her. Someone to make her better, to keep her safe. Someone who can give her what she needs.
Someone who can save her.
[TBC]
notes: *gasp* CAN YOU GUESS WHO IT WILL BE? okay, but more seriously, this is gonna get really filthy in a few chapters. i'll be upping the rating when the time comes (*tee hee*) and adding tags as they become applicable. for your own peace of mind, please take heed. what has once been seen cannot be unseen, etc.
the 'quotes' appearing at the beginning of each chapter are fictional. my fake book author's name is half Nisreen El-Hashemite and half Salome Gluecksohn-Waelsch, both real geneticists.
