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In the space between sleep and waking, she feels Himemiya’s fingers.

Not interlocked with hers (in the gap between their beds) only because Utena reached first. They unbutton her pajama top, never fumbling (strong fingers that dig in the greenhouse); they trace under her breasts, pinch her nipples. Or they yank her pants down (no slipping in quietly, no apologies), and instead of tracing her labia hesitantly (a child encircling a cold pool), they crook and push until she’s slick  enough. The wetness in her underwear is the only trace.

This Himemiya doesn’t ask permission; this Utena isn’t her prince.