disclaimer: disclaimed.
dedication: Yellowcard
notes: in case you didn't know, I am not fond of Inoue Orihime.
notes2: but I am apparently fond enough of her to write her being a slut. welp.
notes3: also in case you didn't know, I like sluts because I am one.
notes4: don't slut-shame.

title: baby, don't you worry
summary: Goddamn, that girl's a train wreck. — Orihime.

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She was shaking, fingers twisting into the plain sheets of her bed, thighs pressed together and shivering, red in the face with the lights off. With her hair across the pillow, she didn't move, drawing breath slow and sure through her nose, trying not to move.

She shouldn't have seen that.

Oh, God, she shouldn't have seen that.

Her nose scrunched up and unbidden came the image of orange hair and white-knuckled long-fingered hands curled around slim pale thighs. Biting into skin, crushed up against the wall as the man she loved and the girl she should have hated did something darker than kissing; there was an undertone of violence to the lust, and Orihime had stared, wide-eyed and wanting.

It would have been so easy to break them up.

But there was something that kept her back, and the image of them pressed together burned itself against the back of her eyelids fast like lightning and loud like cymbals. Dark-faced with hips rolling, the heat of it ate at her for the rest of the day.

Oh, God, she shouldn't have seen that.

And now she lay quiet and still with her thighs together, desperately wishing that she could persuade herself that everything was alright—that she was burning all over. She shoved the covers off, sat up with twitching fingers, and wondered how it had come to this.

And how it had been such a dirty thing, but then Orihime had long been a bad girl—it was just that no one knew it.

Orihime pressed her knees together, and trembled. She had never wanted—but they'd stood there and ground into each other and what she wouldn't have given to have been the one beneath him, or between them—between them sounded better even though it shouldn't have—

But, God, what she wouldn't give.

She dropped her hands to her lap. Touched the hem, and pulled it away from her skin. The air burned against her flesh, flaming up like his hair and oh God, slick wet hot hot so hot—

She was choking on it.

Orihime's hands slipped beneath the fabric, and she closed her eyes.

fin.