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different anon but can you do another part to "where the hurt doesn't reach" but with a female reader? And with Mahiru, Toko and Maki?
Lmao just realised whilst writing that's one girl from each main game
A/N: Of course :} We love some wlw. Just so its made known, though, any time I write for Toko, I am going to add Jack into it as well. Just because there isn't exactly one without the other.
Mahiru:
The afternoon light poured softly through the old windows of Hope’s Peak’s photography studio, painting the floor in golden strips. Dust hung suspended in the beams, undisturbed until Mahiru Koizumi walked through them, camera slung over her shoulder, her gaze sharp but kind.
She hadn’t expected anyone to be here. The studio was usually empty this time of day- most students preferring the courtyard or their dorms. But as she stepped inside, her eyes caught the figure curled in the corner.
(Y/N) sat on the floor, knees drawn up to her chest, arms wrapped around them like she was holding herself together. She flinched before Mahiru even said a word.
Mahiru stopped. No sudden moves. No loud noises. Just a steady breath, then another.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” she said gently. “I can leave, if you want.”
(Y/N)’s eyes flicked up. She didn’t speak- just shook her head, barely perceptible. Her gaze was wary, but not unkind.
Mahiru studied her for a moment. (Y/N) had always kept to herself in class. Quiet. Careful. Like she was bracing for something. Mahiru had seen bruises like that before- not the kind on skin, but the kind behind the eyes.
“I just wanted to develop some photos,” Mahiru continued, moving to her usual table. She set down her bag with deliberate softness, not looking at (Y/N) again right away. “You can stay. I don’t mind.”
Silence stretched. A quiet, fragile kind. But Mahiru didn’t try to fill it. She just got to work, letting the scent of developer fluid and the rhythmic motions of her craft fill the room with calm.
A soft voice, almost a whisper “You… take photos of people, right?”
Mahiru turned. (Y/N)’s arms were still wrapped around herself, but her gaze had shifted. Curious. Afraid, but curious.
“Yeah,” Mahiru said. “Not the posed kind, though. I like catching real moments. People being themselves.”
“…Is that hard?”
Mahiru tilted her head. “Sometimes. Depends on the person. Some people put up walls. Some people just… disappear behind a smile.” She paused. “But I think everyone deserves to be seen. Really seen. Not judged. Not used. Just… seen.”
(Y/N) blinked. Her throat moved like she wanted to say something else but couldn’t find the words. Mahiru didn’t push her.
Minutes passed. Then… “Can I see one?”
Mahiru smiled, soft and genuine. She handed over a photo- black and white, grainy but intimate. A girl laughing mid-step, barefoot in the rain. The joy in her eyes was unfiltered. Free.
“She looks happy,” (Y/N) murmured, almost like it hurt to say.
“She was. For a moment.”
“…I don’t think I’ve ever looked like that.”
Something in Mahiru’s chest tugged painfully. She crouched near (Y/N), keeping a careful distance, her voice quieter now.
“Then maybe one day,” she said, “I can take a photo of you like that.”
(Y/N) tensed. She didn’t look up. “I don’t… like cameras.”
Mahiru nodded. “Okay. I won’t take any unless you ask.”
A long silence followed, but it was different now. Less sharp. Less suffocating.
Finally, (Y/N) asked, “Why are you being nice to me?”
Mahiru looked at her, earnest and unwavering. “Because I’ve seen what cruelty does to people. And because being kind… costs nothing. But it means everything.”
(Y/N)’s eyes shimmered, and she wiped at them with the back of her sleeve. Not sobbing. Just letting go, piece by piece.
“Most guys I knew didn’t think that way,” she whispered.
“I’m not most guys,” Mahiru said simply. “And they were wrong. About everything.”
The room felt warmer now. Not fully safe- not yet- but safer than it had been. Mahiru turned back to her photos, giving (Y/N) her space, but the quiet between them no longer felt like a wall.
It felt like a bridge.
The next time Mahiru entered the studio, (Y/N) was already there.
She sat on the windowsill this time, knees tucked up, eyes on the light slanting across the floor. She didn’t look surprised when Mahiru arrived- just quietly acknowledged her with a small nod.
Mahiru smiled softly. “Hey.”
“Hi.”
That was all. No explanations, no apologies for taking up space. Just presence.
Mahiru began setting up her camera again, checking the prints she’d left to dry last time. Her hands worked by muscle memory, but her mind was half on (Y/N). She could feel the quiet shift in the air- not tension, but something fragile trying to grow roots.
“You come here a lot,” (Y/N) said after a while, her voice still soft but a little more open.
Mahiru glanced up. “Yeah. It’s my favorite place. It’s quiet, but not lonely. You know?”
(Y/N) nodded. “I think I do.”
They spent more afternoons like that- saying little, doing even less. Sometimes (Y/N) brought a book. Sometimes she watched Mahiru work in silence, eyes following her movements with a kind of wary fascination.
One day, after Mahiru developed a print and held it up to the light, she felt (Y/N)’s gaze linger a little longer than usual.
“…Can I try?”
Mahiru turned, blinking. “You want to take a photo?”
(Y/N) hesitated, like the offer might collapse if she reached for it. Then she nodded.
“Of something else. Not people. Just… I want to know what you see through the camera.”
Mahiru handed it over gently, careful not to overwhelm her. “It’s all about finding the moment,” she said. “Even if it’s quiet. Especially if it’s quiet.”
(Y/N) moved slowly through the room, camera clutched like something precious. She didn’t raise it to her eye right away. Just observed. Then- click.
A stack of worn books on a shelf… The light catching on Mahiru’s film strips. A photo pinned crookedly on the wall, curling at the edges like it had been there too long.
When she handed the camera back, her hands were shaking just a little. But her eyes were calm.
Mahiru reviewed the shots, brows lifting. “These are good.”
“You’re just saying that.”
“No, I’m not.” Mahiru turned the display toward her. “Look. You’ve got an eye for the quiet things. The things most people overlook. That’s rare.”
Something bloomed faintly in (Y/N)’s chest- small, unfamiliar. Not pride. Something gentler. Like she mattered.
“You’re the only one I like being around,” she admitted quietly. “Everyone else feels… too loud. Too close.”
Mahiru set the camera down, her expression unreadable for a moment. Then she moved to sit near her, again keeping distance but close enough to be felt.
“I’ll never be loud with you,” Mahiru promised. “Not unless you want me to be. And if you ever want space, I’ll give it. You call the shots.”
(Y/N) looked at her- really looked at her- and for the first time, the fear in her eyes wasn’t the strongest thing there.
“…Can I take a photo of you?” she asked. “Just once?”
Mahiru blinked. “Me?”
(Y/N) nodded, already lifting the camera. “You were the first person who made me feel like I wasn’t broken.”
Mahiru didn’t speak- just sat still, the warmth in her expression softening every line of her face.
Click....
(Y/N) lowered the camera. Her hands weren’t shaking anymore.
Toko (and Jack):
(Y/N) kept to the corners of Hope’s Peak like a ghost- silent, untouchable, half-there. Shadows had become home, and solitude, the safest companion. The halls were too loud, the stares too sharp, and worst of all, there were too many boys. Too many broad shoulders, too many lowered voices and sudden movements, too many ways for fear to bloom in their chest like a bruise.
So when Toko Fukawa noticed them- really noticed- it was like the page of a book folding open mid-sentence.
She was used to being invisible, too. Not that she wanted attention. Attention meant judgment. Meant whispers and the gleam of disgust in someone’s eye. But (Y/N) wasn’t disgusted. When she looked at her, it was like she was bracing for a storm that never came. Like she was holding her breath, and still chose to meet her gaze anyway.
It unsettled her. And fascinated her.
One afternoon in the library, the silence between them finally broke. (Y/N) sat at the farthest table, fingers twitching as she turned the same page over and over, unread.
“You’re… uh… you’re not doing it right,” Toko blurted, then flinched at herself. “I mean-! You’ve been on that page for six minutes and thirty-two seconds.”
(Y/N) startled like a deer, flinching before shrinking into herself. Toko nearly apologized- nearly- but the words died in her throat. She saw the fear then, tucked behind her eyes like a broken wing.
“I wasn’t watching you,” she lied, cheeks burning. “Okay, maybe I was, but not in a creepy way, I swear. I just- ugh! I mean-” She groaned, burying her face in her sleeves. “This is why I should just talk to paper…”
“…You’re not scary.”
The voice was so soft, Toko almost didn’t hear it.
(Y/N) was still hunched, but she looked at her with something new: caution, not fear. As if testing the waters of her presence.
“You’re not like them,” she said.
Toko blinked. Then flushed deeper.
“W-Well of course not! I’m disgusting and weird and hideous and- wait, no, that wasn’t the point-!” She slapped a hand over her mouth. “God, I’m screwing this up…”
But (Y/N) wasn’t retreating. Their lips twitched upward- not quite a smile, more like the idea of one.
A beat passed. Then Toko hesitated. “Do you… wanna read with me?”
The next few days were different.
(Y/N) didn’t talk much, but she didn’t have to. Toko would sit across from her in the library, the space between filled with the quiet rustle of pages and the faint tap of pencils. She’d sneak glances when (Y/N) wasn’t looking. Noticed how her shoulders flinched whenever someone loud passed by. How she always kept a wall at her back.
Toko knew trauma. Knew what it was like to live with the ghost of a hand too rough and a voice too loud. It made her stomach twist, thinking of what (Y/N) must’ve endured. But she didn’t ask. Instead, she gave her space- and safety.
At least, until Genocide Jack decided to make an appearance.
(Y/N) had been particularly quiet that day. Paler than usual. The bruise of nightmares still dark under her eyes. Toko barely had time to ask what was wrong before the pressure in her chest burst.
A jolt, a cackle, a sneeze- and she was gone.
In her place stood Genocide Jack, twirling scissors in her hand like they were an extension of her fingers.
“Well, hellooo, cupcake!” she sang, eyes glinting. “Didn’t expect to see such a sad little cutie on this fine, freaky day!”
(Y/N) froze.
Jack noticed.
Her smirk faltered, just a little. She cocked her head, lowering her scissors.
“Hey. Hey, woah. Easy there, sweetheart,” she cooed. “You think I’m gonna hurt you? Nah. You’re not my type.” She winked, but it didn’t carry the same manic glee. More… reassuring. Protective, even.
“You’re shaking,” she said, softer now. “Who did it?”
(Y/N)’s eyes flicked away.
Jack crouched down in front of them, still keeping a careful distance.
“You know, Toko’s real boring about this crap. She’d stammer and flail and write you a sad sonnet or whatever.” She tapped her chin. “But me? I get mad. Real mad. No one- and I mean no one- gets to hurt my little book buddy.”
That surprised (Y/N). “Book… buddy?”
“Damn right,” Jack said, grinning. “You’ve been sharing brain space with Toko. Which means, like it or not, you’ve got me too. Congratulations! You’ve earned a raving lunatic guardian angel.”
It was ridiculous. And terrifying. And oddly… comforting.
When Toko returned, blinking back into herself like a splash of cold water, she gasped. “Did she say something weird? She always says something weird-”
“She called me her book buddy,” (Y/N) murmured.
Toko froze. A flush crept up her face.
“She… she what?!”
(Y/N) chuckled.
It was quiet, fragile- but real. The first sound of real laughter that had left her in weeks.
And in that moment, for the first time in longer than she could remember, she felt safe.
Not because the world was safe.
But because someone saw her. Bruises and all. And stayed.
After that strange, oddly healing moment, something began to shift.
(Y/N) kept coming to the library, but now she didn’t sit across from Toko- she sat beside her. Close enough that their sleeves would sometimes brush. Close enough that when loud footsteps echoed down the hall, (Y/N) would inch a little nearer, and Toko wouldn’t say a word. She’d just keep reading, heart pounding but steady, letting her presence do what words couldn’t.
And sometimes, when things got especially bad- when the nightmares came back, when (Y/N) walked the halls like she was holding back tears with each breath- Genocide Jack would come out, unprompted.
Toko didn’t always understand it, but somehow, (Y/N) liked her.
Her. The maniac. The murderer. The sharp-toothed, unfiltered chaos hiding in her bones.
“You’re not afraid of me,” Jack had said once, tilting her head as she sprawled upside down across the library bench. “Why’s that, huh? You like girls with a little stab in their step?”
(Y/N) gave her a look that was half-smile, half-sigh. “You’re honest,” she said simply. “You never lie about what you are.”
Jack blinked. Then she gave a laugh that wasn’t manic at all- just warm.
“Damn. You’re weird. I like it.”
They became an odd trio, in their way. (Y/N), quiet and ghostlike, Toko with her words and shame and fragile pride, and Jack, blazing through it all like a storm with scissors and sarcasm.
When Toko asked, in one of her rare moments of boldness, why (Y/N) kept showing up, she answered without hesitation:
“Because you make me feel okay… just being here.”
That stayed with Toko. Long after the library closed. Long after (Y/N) had gone.
It haunted her in the best way.
One evening, the library was nearly empty. Toko sat with her knees hugged to her chest, notebook open but untouched. (Y/N) hadn’t said much all day. She was pale again. Too still.
“Bad night?” she asked quietly.
(Y/N) nodded, then hesitated. “He used to bang on the door before coming in. Even now… I flinch when I hear knocking.”
Toko’s hands clenched around her sleeves.
“…I know how that feels.”
She looked up, surprised.
Toko wasn’t looking at her- she was staring at the floor, trembling just slightly.
“I had someone like that… he never knocked, either,” she whispered. “Sometimes I think I still hear his footsteps. I hate it. I hate how my body still remembers even when I try to forget.”
(Y/N) shifted. Slowly, she reached out and placed her hand over Toko’s.
Just that.
Toko froze.
But she didn’t pull away.
Neither of them said anything for a while. The silence wasn’t heavy this time. It was soft. Tentative.
“Do you… wanna stay with me tonight?” (Y/N) asked. “We don’t have to talk. Just… I sleep better when I know someone’s nearby.”
Toko’s breath caught.
Then she nodded.
That night, Toko sat curled in a beanbag in (Y/N)’s dorm room, notebook in her lap, glasses slipping down her nose. (Y/N) was in bed, curled under her blanket, already breathing softly.
Jack didn’t come out. For once, she stayed quiet. Still. Maybe even… at peace.
Toko watched (Y/N) sleep for a while, blinking slowly.
She didn’t understand why she liked being around her- around them- but she felt it. Felt it in the way (Y/N) leaned into her presence. Trusted her. Wanted her there.
It didn’t make her feel disgusting.
It made her feel wanted.
Maki:
It started with a broken cup.
(Y/N) hadn’t meant to drop it- it was just a clumsy twitch of the wrist, a ghost memory of flinching at a voice that wasn’t there. The ceramic shattered on the dormitory floor, echoing far too loud in the quiet of the common room. Her breath caught, eyes wide, body frozen like prey expecting punishment.
Maki Harukawa stepped into the doorway at that exact moment.
Her expression was unreadable, the same quiet storm it always was. Sharp eyes flicked from the broken cup to (Y/N), then to the trembling in her hands.
“I’ll clean it,” (Y/N) said quickly, too quickly. Her voice was thin and shaky, like a thread pulled too tight. “I didn’t mean to- please, don’t-”
“I’m not mad.” Maki’s voice was flat, but not cold. She moved slowly, deliberately, as if approaching a wounded animal. “I’ll get the broom.”
(Y/N) blinked. That was all she said.
Minutes passed. The shards were swept into a dustpan. Maki didn’t ask questions, didn’t press. She simply crouched, scooped the last of the fragments into a bag, and threw it away.
Then silence.
(Y/N) stood awkwardly in the corner, arms wrapped tightly around herself. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I wanted to.”
“You... wanted to?”
Maki finally looked at her then- really looked. Not with pity, but with a kind of quiet understanding that unnerved and comforted at once.
“I’ve seen that look before,” she said after a pause. “The way you flinched. The way your voice changes around men.”
(Y/N) stiffened.
Maki sat down on the edge of the couch, legs tucked under her. She didn’t ask (Y/N) to join her. She didn’t ask anything at all.
But after a moment, (Y/N) sat too. Not beside her- just near enough to feel the warmth of someone who wasn’t going to hurt her.
“It was my stepfather,” (Y/N) whispered, unsure why the words came out. “He was... angry. A lot. And when I couldn’t be what he wanted, he made sure I understood that.”
Maki didn’t look away. Her face didn’t twist in sympathy. She just listened.
“I’m afraid all the time,” (Y/N) admitted. “Especially around men. I know not everyone’s like him, but my body won’t listen. It freezes. I... freeze.”
“You don’t have to explain yourself to me.” Maki’s tone didn’t change, but there was something soft behind it now. “Fear is how we survive sometimes.”
(Y/N) looked at her- the calm way Maki sat, so still, like a blade sheathed but never dull. She didn’t fidget. She didn’t reach out. She gave them space in a way no one else did.
“You’re the first person who hasn’t tried to fix me,” (Y/N) said, voice barely audible.
“That’s because you’re not broken,” Maki answered. “You’re hurt. There’s a difference.”
Silence wrapped around them again, this time not suffocating, but protective. Like a blanket pulled just high enough to hide behind.
Maki stood after a while, heading for the door. But before she left, she paused.
“I’m in the training room most mornings,” she said. “You don’t have to come. But if you do, I won’t ask why.”
(Y/N) blinked. “Are you... inviting me?”
Her eyes met (Y/N)’s. “I’m saying... it’s easier to fight ghosts when you’re not alone.”
And then she was gone.
But the room didn’t feel empty after.
It felt like the beginning of something quiet and kind.
It took three days for (Y/N) to show up.
She lingered at the edge of the training room, hands in her sleeves, unsure if she was welcome or just tolerated. But Maki didn’t stop mid-punch or raise an eyebrow. She just glanced toward her once, nodded like she’d expected it all along, and kept moving.
The rhythmic sound of fists against the sandbag was oddly soothing. Predictable. Controlled.
Unlike the chaos in (Y/N)’s chest.
“Want to try?” Maki asked without turning around.
(Y/N) hesitated. “I don’t really... fight.”
“That’s fine,” Maki said simply. “You don’t have to be strong like me.”
She offered a pair of gloves anyway, left them on the bench without pressure. (Y/N) didn’t touch them. Not that day.
But she came back. Again and again.
And slowly, something changed.
It wasn’t about the punching bags or the training. It was the routine. The silence. The way Maki didn’t push or prod or fill the air with empty words. She understood the language of people who flinch when spoken to too loudly.
(Y/N) started stretching beside her. Then mimicking the jabs. Then laughing- only once- when she tripped over her own feet, and Maki’s mouth twitched with something dangerously close to a smirk.
She was different when she let her guard down. Her sarcasm was dry and unexpected, her observations razor-sharp but never cruel. And (Y/N) found herself relaxing, just a little, every time she was near.
One morning, (Y/N) came in with a hoodie pulled tight over their head, shoulders hunched. Her eyes were puffy. She didn’t say anything.
Maki didn’t ask.
She just took a water bottle, cracked it open, and handed it over wordlessly.
“I had a nightmare,” (Y/N) whispered after a while. “I woke up and thought I was back there.”
Maki looked at her, silent for a moment. Then she said, “Sometimes I still dream of the first person I had to kill.”
(Y/N)’s breath caught.
“I didn’t want to,” Maki continued. “But I was told it was necessary. That if I didn’t, they’d kill me instead.”
A pause.
Then, gently: “You’re not alone in waking up afraid.”
(Y/N) looked down at her hands. “I hate how weak I feel.”
“You’re not weak. You survived.”
One week later, (Y/N) asked if she could walk with Maki to the courtyard.
It wasn’t much. Just sitting together in the chilly breeze, backs against the wall, sharing a peach Maki had taken from the kitchen like it was nothing.
Maki glanced sideways as (Y/N) chewed in silence. “You don’t have to stay near me just because I make you feel safe.”
(Y/N)’s eyes widened. “That’s not the only reason.”
“Oh?”
“I... like you.” The words stumbled out in a rush. “I mean, not just the way you make me feel calm. I like you. The way you listen. The way you don’t treat me like glass.”
Maki blinked. For a second, she said nothing.
Then: “I like being around you too.”
She didn’t blush. Didn’t fidget. But she let her knee brush against (Y/N)’s, the contact featherlight but real. Present. Intentional.
“I won’t touch you unless you ask,” Maki said quietly. “But if you ever want to be close, I’ll be here.”
And (Y/N), for the first time in years, leaned in just enough to rest her head against her shoulder.
The air smelled like fallen leaves and something new.
Something safe.
If you're willing do you mind doing that last prompt you did (the one with Mahiru and Kaede, also fuck that Hina guy wtf) but with Kyoko, Celeste and Toko? I really enjoy subby readers and my gay heart is screaming ♥️
A/N: Absolutely! I tried to make it more subby, I hope this is what you wanted :} Also, yeah, I agree. That guy was super fucking weird. Hopefully, it won't be a problem anymore, though.
Kyoko:
- The Talk Comes First: Kyoko doesn’t act without knowing the full picture. She’ll sit beside (Y/N), voice calm and soothing, hands gently folded in her lap. “Are you sure you’re ready?” she’ll ask- not to test her, but to assure her she’s not going anywhere if she’s not. The detective always makes sure the emotional groundwork is solid before taking any step forward.
- Subtle Nervousness: She seems composed, but the truth is in the little things: how her fingers linger longer than usual, how she hesitates before speaking, how her eyes flick to (Y/N)’s lips then away again. It’s not fear- it’s hope. Quiet, careful hope that (Y/N) will want this just as much as she does.
- Soft, Private Setting: Kyoko prepares everything in advance: the room is clean, the sheets are freshly changed, the lights are low and warm. Maybe there’s a playlist in the background- instrumental, minimal vocals. She creates an atmosphere that wraps around (Y/N) like a protective spell.
- Guided Reassurance: She reads (Y/N)’s every reaction like she’s solving a case. If her breath catches or her fingers twitch, she slows. “Is this okay?” she murmurs. “We stop the moment you say so.” There is no judgment in her voice, only care.
- Uncharacteristically Soft Words: When the walls fall, they fall completely. “You’re beautiful,” she whispers against (Y/N)’s skin. “I’ve never trusted anyone this much.” Her words are rare gems, only shared when they matter most- raw and real in a way that Kyoko doesn’t allow herself to be often.
- Taking Her Time: She savors every kiss, every brush of skin. Her touches are slow, almost reverent, like she's memorizing the love of her life. She’s not rushing to an end- she’s exploring, mapping, learning. Her pace says ‘you matter to me’.
- Detective Instincts… for Love: If (Y/N) tenses, if her voice falters, if her expression shifts even slightly- she knows. She adjusts instantly. “We don’t have to go further. We can just be here.” Kyoko is attentive in a way that feels like she’s holding your soul in her hands.
- She Makes It About (Y/N): This isn’t about her. Kyoko pays attention to (Y/N)’s sighs, her shivers, her breath. She adapts to what she needs, and finds joy in giving her pleasure- not just physically, but emotionally. She’s endlessly patient, giving without asking for anything back.
- Detective-Level Focus: The way (Y/N)’s back arches? Noted. The little gasp when she kisses a certain spot? Locked in. She pieces it together like evidence, each detail helping her uncover exactly how to make her unravel.
- Hands First, Always Controlled: Kyoko’s fingers are her most precise tools- slender, confident, and deliberate. Even with gloves, she’s devastatingly effective. She doesn’t rush, she doesn’t falter. “I want to feel you come undone for me,” she murmurs, and she does.
- Kisses Between Commands: While her fingers do the work, her mouth follows: trailing kisses down (Y/N)’s neck, teeth nipping her collarbone, lips warm and firm. Her voice is low: “Don’t run. Let it happen.” She grounds her with both command and comfort.
- If She Uses Her Mouth… (Y/N)’s Doomed: Kyoko between her thighs is a study in devotion. She licks with purpose, pressure, and slow-building heat. Her hands keeps (Y/N) open, her eyes locked on hers. Every look says, ‘don’t look away from me’. And (Y/N) can't.
- She Talks (Y/N) Through It: “You’re close.” “That’s it, stay with me.” “I want you to let go.” Her voice alone is enough to push her over. She speaks in that even, warm tone (Y/N) trusts more than anything.
- Body Language Queen: When (Y/N) starts trembling, she grounds her. “Breathe. I’ve got you,” she whispers, and she does. She’s right there, adjusting her pace, never leaving her to ride it out alone. She breaks her down just to hold her through it.
- Finishing: When (Y/N) finally falls apart, she catches every piece. Shes in her arms before she can even think. “You did so well,” she murmurs against her temple. “I’m here. I’ve got you.” Her embrace is firm, warm, and unshakable.
- Gentle Aftercare: Warm water, soft clothes, slow fingers brushing through (Y/N)’s hair- Kyoko takes care of her like it’s second nature. Not for show, not for reward, but because (Y/N)’s hers, and that means everything. She wipes her down, tucks her into bed, kisses her wrist or her knuckles. The silence is not awkward- it’s safe. It’s filled with everything she can’t say aloud yet.
- Protective Instincts: She doesn’t move far. Her arm stays around (Y/N)’s waist, her forehead rests against hers, and she whispers, “I’m proud of you.” Even in sleep, she keeps her close, like she’s guarding something precious.
- And Later, When (Y/N)’s Ready: Kyoko brings it up again, gently. “How did that feel for you?” she asks, genuinely curious. She’s not looking for praise- she’s looking to learn, to understand, to grow. “Tell me everything. I want to know you.”
- A New Level of Bond: Afterwards, something in her softens permanently. She reaches for (Y/N)’s hand more in public, touches her back when she’s nervous, sits a little closer when she’s quiet. Her gestures stay small but deeply meaningful.
Celeste:
- Velvet Patience: Celeste is unnervingly calm, even in the most delicate situations. Her voice is a steady lull, her touch a whisper. She picks up on every nervous glance, every stuttered breath, and treats it not as hesitation- but as precious vulnerability to be cherished, not rushed.
- Curated Intimacy: Every moment is an event to Celeste. She crafts the room like a stage deep crimson sheets, flickering candlelight, the warm scent of roses and cinnamon tea. It's a soft fantasy she’s prepared just for (Y/N)- a world where tension melts away.
- Gentle Consent: Before anything begins, she cups (Y/N)’s cheek and asks, “Are you certain, my dear?” Her tone is so gentle, it borders on reverent. Consent, to her, is sacred. One “stop,” and she’ll halt without hesitation, offering warmth and cuddles instead.
- Experience Without Arrogance: Though she’s clearly confident and well-versed, Celeste never flaunts it. She leads with grace, not dominance. Her touches are exploratory, not possessive. She lets (Y/N) guide the pace, only stepping in to soothe or steady with tender encouragement.
- Laughter in Lace: If things go clumsy, she doesn’t blink. She just smiles, maybe chuckles, and says something like, “Perfection is dull, darling. I much prefer sincerity.” It eases the moment, makes (Y/N) feel seen and safe.
- Emotional First, Physical Second: For Celeste, intimacy without emotional resonance is meaningless. She watches (Y/N)’s face more than anything, whispering things like, “You’re doing beautifully,” or, “You have no idea how radiant you are when you trust me.”
- Slow, Intentional Control: Celeste doesn’t rush pleasure. She draws it out like a skilled gambler playing the long game. Her voice drops, sultry and steady: “Relax, mon amour. I know exactly how to make you tremble.” She plays (Y/N) like a prized deck of cards- every shuffle intentional.
- Bare Devotion: She begins with her hands- every movement is slow, studied, circular. One hand soothes while the other teases. If (Y/N) starts to shake, she holds her steady, whispering praise like silk over skin.
- Sweet Words, Wicked Edges: Celeste’s mouth is poetic even in passion. “You’re already this wet? How delightful…” Her tone stays elegant, teasing, yet never crude. She relishes how (Y/N) blushes, coaxing out gasps with every breathy murmur.
- Worship with Her Mouth: Between (Y/N)’s thighs, Celeste becomes reverent- like a queen worshiping a goddess. She alternates pressure and tempo with the finesse of a maestro. Occasionally, she pauses just to listen to the whimper she elicits, then resumes with a devilish glint in her eyes.
- Gentle Restraint: When things peak, Celeste adds pressure with a steady hand on (Y/N)’s hips. If she tries to squirm away or close her legs, Celeste parts them again, whispering, “No hiding, mon trésor. Let me see all of you.”
- Intuitive as a Card Shark: She reads (Y/N)’s reactions like a pro- breath catches, legs tense, voice cracks. Her every move is adjusted in response, keeping (Y/N) right at the edge until she knows- now. Only then does she let her fall.
- Hidden Softness: Only (Y/N) sees her like this- bare-voiced and slightly trembling when she says, “Thank you… for trusting me with something so precious.” It’s the rare crack in her otherwise theatrical façade, and it makes (Y/N) fall even harder.
- That First Finish- Her True Victory: The moment (Y/N) comes undone, Celeste doesn’t let go immediately. She eases her down slowly, lips softening, drawing out every last tremble. Her reward isn’t the climax itself- it’s the broken, blissful trust in (Y/N)’s voice afterward.
- Post-Climax Bliss: Afterward, Celeste is all silk and silence. She brings tea, tucks (Y/N) into bed, and curls around her like a shield. Her parting whisper? “You did beautifully… I hope I was unforgettable.” (Y/N) clings to her, dazed, and Celeste’s smile lingers in the dark.
- Aftercare Royalty: She doesn’t just do aftercare- she elevates it. Warm tea, gentle cleaning, luxurious sleepwear, and the softest embrace. (Y/N) gets to lie on her chest, feeling her fingertips move slowly through her hair as she whispers, “You are safe. You are adored.”
Toko (plus Jack):
- Nervous to the Core: The moment intimacy even approaches the conversation, Toko’s stammering like her life depends on it. “I-I-I- this is m-m-moving so fast! W-We haven’t even talked about lighting conditions!!”
- Hopeless Romantic: Her ideal “first time” is something out of a tragic Victorian novel- faint candlelight, whispered poetry, trembling confessions. She would kill for rose petals.
- Check-in Queen: “A-Are you okay? Did that hurt? I-I can stop- no really, just say the word!!” She checks in every ten seconds, desperate to get things “right.”
- Overheats Instantly: Compliment her? She short-circuits. “You’re so gentle, Toko.” - Cue wide-eyed stare, open mouth, and total emotional collapse.
- Tactile Panic, But Devotion: Touching (Y/N)? Terrifying. But she still does it, hands shaking, because she wants to. She takes her time, watching her reactions like she's memorizing scripture.
- Sacred Kisses: Every kiss is given with shaking lips and reverence. Like she’s afraid she’ll break the moment if she breathes too hard.
- Miracle Complex: When (Y/N) moans? She looks like she’s seen God. “I-I did that? You… because of me?” It's part pride, part panic, part euphoria. “I n-never thought anyone would… want me… Like that.”
- Taking the Stage-: When things get too intense for Toko- sneeze, slice, cackle- Jack’s on deck with that wild grin- “Well helloooo, lover~”
- Confidence on Fire: Where Toko panics, Jack thrives. She's flirty, bold, and loves teasing (Y/N) just to watch her squirm. Even so, shes weirdly considerate? She knows when to reel it in. If (Y/N)’s nervous, she dials it back (still grinning, of course). “Don’t cry on me now, babe. You’re doing sooo good~”
- Romance, But Make It Unhinged: Kisses (Y/N)’s knuckles while whispering, “You're the only one who makes me wanna play nice.” And she means it.
- Tongue Game- Dangerous: She’s filthy. Loud, wet, teasing- moaning like she’s the one getting off from tasting (Y/N). “Damn, sweetheart, you taste like sin~”
- Edge Queen: She loves dragging it out, edging until (Y/N)’s thighs tremble and she’s breathless. All while praising and taunting in equal measure.
- Orgasm Hunter: When she knows (Y/N)’s close, she gets feral. Eyes wild, tongue relentless, chasing her climax like it’s prey.
- Takes Care Afterwards (Sorta): Gently kisses (Y/N)s thighs, helps her clean up… while making a very inappropriate joke. “Can’t break my toy on the first playdate~”
- Balance of Soft and Savage: Toko builds the emotional intensity, Jack brings the fire. (Y/N) learns which version she wants depending on her mood. Toko starts it, slow and shaky. Jack finishes it, wild and ruthless. Tag-team of the century.
- Loving Navigation: (Y/N) learns how to hold Toko through the panic and keep Jack from going full menace. It's a labor of love- beautiful, weird, messy. Despite all the madness, both parts of Toko genuinely want to love and worship (Y/N)… they just express it very differently.