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TOSHINORISBABY’S VALENTINE’S COLLECTION

❤︎ 𝔻𝕒𝕪 𝕗𝕚𝕧𝕖 ⋮ ♡ 𝐶ℎ𝑎𝑚𝑝𝑎𝑔𝑛𝑒 ♡ ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ 𝓜𝓪𝓼𝓾𝓶𝓲 𝓨𝓸𝓭𝓸𝓰𝓪𝔀𝓪 - 𝚃𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚎𝚗 𝙰𝚗𝚔𝚒 ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

VALENTINE’S COLLECTION MASTERLIST | 2026. [A03] [Fanfiction.net] [Wattpad]

Rough Valentine (4k words) Masumi Yodogawa x Reader

summary: It’s the worst Valentine’s Day of your life: mission failed, date ghosted, self-esteem circling the drain—until Masumi turns up with champagne and a lesson in discipline you won’t forget. He’s not here to make you feel better, he’s here to make you feel. warnings/themes: Reader Insert, Oni!Reader, Rough Sex, Vaginal Sex, Anal Sex, Face-Fucking/Rough Oral Sex, Fingering, Finger Sucking, Choking, Hair Pulling, Facials, Exhibitionism, Drinking/Drunkenness, Humiliation, Degradation, Boss/Employee, Mildly Dubious Consent, Loneliness, Self-Esteem Issues, Power Dynamics, No Aftercare, Light Angst, Shame, Light Emotional Manipulation, Canon Compliant(ish).

Valentine’s night slouches into your apartment like a stray dog: damp and unwanted. Tokyo is sullen with rain, window glass stippled in endless trails, city lights bleeding in smudged colours across the high-rise gloom. You’re sunk into your threadbare couch, half-dressed, hair still damp from the shower you took to kill some of the evening. The TV flickers aimlessly; you’re not really watching. You finished the last of your cheap wine an hour ago, and your brain is too hazy to care about whatever mindless shit the network thinks passes for romance.

Your phone’s screen has stayed blank all night, except for the time, which is now staring back at you like an insult: twenty-one fifty-six. Happy Valentine’s Day, loser. You pull your blanket tighter, mind spinning with all of the ways today could have been less of a failure—if you hadn’t fucked up the mission, if you hadn’t been stood up. If you were anyone else.

You replay it again anyway. The alley. The split-second decision. The way Masumi’s voice cut through your earpiece telling you to hold position—and how you didn’t. You tell yourself you were trying to help. And it almost worked. What sticks instead is the look he gave you afterwards: not angry. Worse. Disappointed.

Then, as if the universe wanted to double down, your damn Valentine's date ghosted you, too. Whatever. Not like it was going to go anywhere. You’re married to the job at this point, and it’s not like you can drop “I’m an oni” into casual conversation over drinks.

You press your thumb to your sternum, right where your chest feels hollow. It’s not like you’re desperate for a relationship. Sometimes you just want to be wanted on purpose. A little excitement. Something to remind you that you’re still alive.

As if on cue, a knock rattles the front door—three sharp raps, hard enough to make you jump. You freeze. There’s only one person who knocks like that, with the rhythm of a man who doesn’t believe in waiting.

You shuffle to the peephole, hoping you’re wrong. But of course, the hallway lens flattens Masumi Yodogawa into something cartoonish: perpetual smile, eyes that never blink. Your heart knocks around, equal parts dread and curiosity.

There’s nowhere to hide. You crack the door.

He doesn’t bother with greetings. “Are you going to let me in?”

You’re thrown for a moment. He’s not in uniform—just black jeans and a grey hoodie, hands shoved in the pockets. It’s oddly unsettling. You can’t remember ever seeing him out of that red and black bomber jacket before. The casual look makes him even harder to read than usual, and you almost forget to be nervous. He’s also holding a bottle by the neck, angled loose at his side, as if the gesture were an afterthought. You half-wonder if you’ve dozed off, wine drunk, and this is some weird dream.

You hesitate, pulse beating behind your eyes. You know exactly what this is going to be: a dressing-down, a demand for your report, maybe a threat of suspension or worse. The champagne glints at you—out of place, almost taunting. Probably meant for someone else, and you’re just a convenient stop on the way. Better to get it over with. You step aside.

Masumi slides in without ceremony, toeing off his shoes. The air shifts, cold from the hallway, a faint trace of rain and city clinging to his hair. He glances around your living room, his mouth curling a fraction tighter. “This is depressing, even for you.”

You bite back a reply. No point adding fuel to this. You’re hanging by a thread as it is. He stalks in, all movements pared down to necessity, attention flicking to some binned wilted flowers, the empty wineglass, the cold takeaway leftovers. He makes no comment about your ratty shorts or the way your bra strap sags.

He drops the champagne on the table and leans against the wall, arms folded. “You really fucked up today.”

You bristle. “Not now, Masumi.”

He shrugs, unimpressed. “You think the world works around your mood?”

You glare at him, but it’s mostly just resignation. “You chose to come here.”

He holds your gaze, smile never budging. “Could’ve let you stew alone. Decided to check if you were wallowing or drinking yourself to death.”

“Both,” you mutter. “What do you care?”

He ignores that. He grabs the champagne from your coffee table again and begins twisting the bottle’s wire cage. “You’ve got glasses?”

You stare at him. It makes no sense. This is hardly a celebration, and Masumi’s never been the type to bother with any small comforts to soothe hurt egos. He just stands there, watching you with that uncanny little smile, eyes unblinking, waiting to see what you’ll do next. After a second, you give in and get up to fetch the tumblers—mismatched, both chipped.

He pops the cork with a sound too cheerful for this room. Bubbles slither up the glass as he pours, careless with the foam. He hands you one and tips the other back, swallowing in a single, easy motion.

You sit back on your couch with your legs curled beneath you, thumbing the rim of your glass. Masumi doesn’t join you—he stands over you, watching with the interest of someone about to witness a traffic accident. Fuck it. You down your drink too, chasing a little confidence to finally meet his eyes again, which you can feel boring into the top of your head.

When he speaks again, his tone is one you recognise all too well: “You ready to tell me why you disobeyed my orders?”

You set the glass down hard, mouth a flat line. “Don’t need to. You read my report.”

He leans in, looming. “Reports are for paper. What I want to know is if you’re suicidal, or simply incompetent.”

The shame you’ve been carrying all night stirs again, dull and familiar. “I made a call. It was the wrong one. I said I was sorry.”

His mouth tightens. “Sorry doesn’t reattach limbs. Sorry doesn’t keep the Momotaro from burning down our base of operations. You think the rules are for everyone else?”

The anger you thought was dead spits back to life. “What is this, Masumi? You here to lecture me, or to play fucking social worker?”

He laughs—a short, ugly sound. “No one’s here to coddle you. Least of all me.”

You look away, throat thick. “I don’t need coddling. I need you to fuck off.”

He ignores that, pouring you both another half glass and swirling his. His eyes sharpen as they sweep your face. “That why you’re drinking alone on Valentine’s? Let me guess—date bailed. Or you never had one.”

Your face burns. You snatch your glass, tossing back the champagne. It tastes metallic, cloying, the fizz scratches your throat.

He watches you down it, eyes steady. “Didn’t take you for sentimental.”

You clench the glass so tight it almost cracks. “It’s not sentiment. It’s just… I don’t know. Look, I don’t want to talk about it. Just leave, will you?”

He’s silent for a moment, studying you. Then his smile widens into something even more dangerous and predatory. “I see. You just want someone to make you forget you’re a failure for five fucking minutes.”

Your gut flips. You glare at him, heat searing through your chest. “Fuck you. You don’t know shit about me.”

He steps in, shadow swallowing the space between you. “I know enough. You act tough, but you’ll let any bastard between your legs if he looks at you right.”

The words land, slicing through what’s left of your defences. Your pulse stutters. Shame washes out the anger, leaving nothing but a hollow, lonely ache.

He sets his glass aside, never breaking eye contact.

“That’s what you want, isn’t it?” He says, crowding you back against the couch, his voice low and clinical. “Someone to shut off all the noise in your head.”

You hesitate, searching for a way out, a comeback—anything. But his gaze holds you in place; black eyes fixed on you, making it impossible to look anywhere else.

Without warning, his hand slides down, rough through the thin fabric of your pyjama shorts. His palm cups you, thumb pressing deliberate against your clit. You jerk, breath catching in your throat, unable to break eye contact. For a wild second, you have no idea what the hell is happening, no idea if you should shove him off or press closer. But already the shock is dissolving into heat, and before you know it, you want more.

He must see it in your eyes, because his other hand, still holding his champagne glass, rises to your mouth. He presses the rim to your mouth, a silent command in his stare, and waits for you to drink.

You do. You lap up the fizzy liquid as he tips it past your lips, some spilling messily down your chin. Champagne bubbles sting the corners of your mouth; you swallow, throat working around the sharpness. All the while, his fingers hook into the loose material of your shorts, tugging it aside and slipping beneath, finding you already hot, embarrassingly wet for him.

The cold air hits your skin at the same moment his fingers do, and the sensation is so immediate you almost gasp. Part of you still wants to twist away, but you hold his gaze, refusing to show any sign of weakness, refusing to give him that satisfaction—even as your body begs for him.

“Get on your knees.” He orders, pressing the tip of his finger inside you just enough to make you whine.

You’re shaking as you move, driven by something you barely understand. Stopping him isn’t even a real option—not when he’s felt how wet you are, not when he’s your superior and looking at you like you’re already conquered. You kneel on the worn rug, gaze locked on his mouth, breath coming fast.

“Take it off,” he says.

You blink. “What?”

“Your top.”

Your hands are moving before your brain catches up. You peel it over your head, fingers clumsy, nerves jangling. Goosebumps rise along your arms and across your stomach. Your nipples are already tight, hard from the cold and from the way he’s looking at you.

His gaze sweeps your body, unhurried, almost bored, picking you apart detail by detail. There’s nothing appreciative in it. Nothing soft. Just a strange kind of assessment.

“So embarrassing,” he mutters. “Drinking alone. Sitting here half-dressed, hoping someone might knock.”

Your cheeks burn. You want to argue. You can’t. The heat between your thighs burns hotter than ever as those crazed eyes of his settle on your breasts.

He lifts the champagne bottle instead of saying anything about the look you’re giving him. The mouth of it presses against your lips without warning.

He tips the bottle, and the champagne floods into your mouth in a messy rush, bubbles stinging your nose. It’s too much at once; you swallow fast to keep from coughing.

“Swallow,” he says anyway, watching your throat work.

Some of it spills. It trickles from the corner of your mouth, down your chin, sliding in a slow bead along the curve of your breast. You’re not even pretending to resist now. You just sit there, hands useless at your sides, trying not to squirm too obviously. Masumi crouches in front of you, eyes following that single drip as it trails lower. He watches it reach the underside of your breast before he leans in and licks it away.

His mouth closes over your nipple immediately after, sucking it hard into his mouth. The contrast is brutal—cold, champagne-wet skin, hot mouth.

The sensation makes you jolt.

Your brain suddenly catches up. What the hell is happening?

You’re half-naked, kneeling on your living room rug, your boss’s mouth on your chest. For a split second, doubt claws up your throat. This is insane.

“Masumi, what—what are we doing?” Your voice wobbles as you stare up at the ceiling’s spinning patterns. Your back arches without permission. Every pull of his mouth sends a pulse straight between your legs, even as your mind scrambles for control.

You’re dizzy, heart slamming. You try again. “Are you… are you trying to get me dru—?”

He silences you with two fingers in your mouth.

He pushes them in deep enough to make you gag slightly, watching your reaction with unnerving focus.

“Don’t,” he says when your hand twitches.

He tests you—pressing deeper, withdrawing slightly, pushing again. You let him use your mouth, tongue slick against the heel of his hand. He works your jaw, watching your face for any hint of resistance. There’s none.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Suck.”

You close your lips around his fingers, tongue flattening instinctively beneath them. He leans closer, face inches from yours now, eyes locked onto your expression as he moves them in and out.

He doesn’t rush. He wants to see it. Every flicker of discomfort. Every swallow. Every soft, embarrassing sound your throat makes when he pushes a little too deep.

“Can’t even pretend you don’t want it,” he says quietly.

He curls his fingers, dragging them against your tongue until your eyes water. Then he pushes them further, forcing you to take more than feels comfortable.

You choke around him, throat tightening. But he doesn’t pull back immediately. He holds you there for a beat longer than necessary, watching the way your lashes flutter, the way your breath stutters through your nose.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “Five minutes ago you were telling me to leave.”

His fingers slide out slowly, slick with your spit. The loss makes you inhale sharply; your lips are left tingling.

All you can do is blink, completely dazed.

He rises to his feet, towering over you again. You swallow, throat still sensitive, and, for half a second, something like embarrassment floods you. You’re still kneeling. Mouth wet. Looking up at him like you’re waiting for the next instruction.

He unbuckles his belt with deliberate calm. The metallic sound cuts through the room. You feel your stomach drop—anticipation, nerves, something electric crawling up your spine.

Your eyes flick down before you can stop yourself. “At least you’re being honest about what you want now,” he says, almost under his breath.

He strokes himself once through his boxers, the head of his cock straining against the cotton. The movement leaves a slick patch behind. Then he hooks a thumb under the waistband and pulls himself free. He’s impossibly hard, flushed dark at the tip, veins standing out along the shaft. All you can do is stare, your pulse thudding behind your eyes.

You barely have time to question any of it before he upends the bottle, champagne spilling over his length. It runs down the pink, sensitive skin, pooling at the base and making him glisten. You can’t look away.

“Clean it,” he orders, pulling you closer by the hair.

You wrap your lips around him, the taste of champagne and warm skin flooding your mouth. He doesn’t give you time to settle into it. The first thrust is shallow, deliberately so, forcing your mouth to stretch around him, lips pulled tight by his grip. Champagne slicks your tongue, sharp and sour, stinging where your throat is already sensitive. He watches your reactions closely—not for pleasure, but for compliance.

“Sloppy,” he says, when you hesitate. His thumb digs into the hinge of your jaw, forcing you wider. “You make mistakes like this on the job, too. Half‑effort. No follow‑through.”

He fucks into your throat, using your head as leverage. You gag, eyes watering, but don’t pull back. This is what he wants. What you want, too, in ways you can’t untangle.

He pushes deeper, the head of his cock nudging the back of your throat, withdrawing just enough to make you chase him. You try to adjust, to breathe, but he sets the pace without asking. Each movement is controlled, exact, like he’s correcting posture.

Saliva spills down your chin; even then, he doesn’t stop. If anything, he tightens his grip, forcing you to take him further. He’s merciless, thumb digging into your jaw as he drives deeper, his pace unforgiving. Every slam into your throat feels like a reminder: you’re here because you failed, because you want to be punished, because you can’t look away from him.

“Is this what you came home wishing for tonight?” He continues, his voice steady. “Taking a cock so you could forget about how badly you fucked up today?”

Your eyes burn. You want to deny it, but he’s right. The humiliation coils hot and sharp in your stomach, and your body responds faster than your pride ever could. Your hands twitch uselessly behind your back.

He lets you breathe only when he chooses, pulling back just long enough for you to gasp, then thrusting in again while you’re still open and unguarded. The rhythm turns unforgiving, his hips snapping forward with increasing force.

“From now on,” he mutters. “This is what you earn when you don’t listen.”

Your throat aches. Your jaw burns. You feel small in a way that doesn’t frighten you nearly as much as it should. When he finally pulls out, you’re shaking—not from exhaustion, but from the sharp, humiliating clarity of how badly you want his approval.

He yanks you to your feet, dragging you toward the window.

Rain still smears the glass. He shoves you up against it, the cold pane digging into your stomach, the tops of your thighs pressed to the sill. He wrenches your shorts down, exposing you completely.

“I think everyone should see what a useless whore you are.” He growls, lining himself up, cock still slathered in your saliva.

You whimper, but it’s not fear. The threat thrums in your blood—dark and thrilling.

The glass is cold enough to bite. Your palms skid against condensation as he presses you closer, forcing your chest flat, cheek turned toward the rain‑slicked city beyond. Your reflection stares back at you—eyes too bright, mouth parted, body open in a way you never planned.

He drags the head of his cock through your folds first, slow and teasing, spreading slick heat until your thighs tense on instinct. You whimper, hips rolling, desperate for more. Your breath fogs the glass, and you bite down on a pleading sound, but it escapes anyway: a needy, embarrassing whine.

Masumi pauses, lingering at your entrance just long enough to make you squirm. “That’s it,” he whispers, cruel, right into the shell of your ear. “Beg.”

Your face burns. You swallow your pride and choke out, “Please, Masumi—just... Fuck me—please—”

He doesn’t make you wait any longer. When he finally thrusts in, it’s deep enough to knock the breath from your lungs. The sound you make is ugly, and he rewards it by driving in again, harder, forcing your hips to rock against the sill.

He fists a hand in your hair, pulling your head back until your eyes lock with your reflection and Masumi’s shape behind you, blurred in the storm. His free hand circles your throat, squeezing just enough to leave you desperate for air. He keeps you angled to the window, letting the city watch as he takes you apart.

“Anyone down there looks up,” he says quietly, “this is what they see. You spread open. Not talking back, for once.”

Your legs tremble. The humiliation sinks deeper than the pleasure, threading through it, tightening everything. You want to hide. You don’t. You feel pinned between the glass and his body, caught in a role you didn’t realise you’d rehearsed so well.

You keen, helpless, as he fucks you with a savage, relentless rhythm, breath brushing your ear. Each thrust lands with intent, like punctuation.

The glass rattles with each snap of his hips. You bite your lower lip hard to keep from crying out. His fingers squeeze tighter around your neck. Black spots bloom at the edge of your vision. You claw at the window frame, desperate for something solid.

“This,” he says, “is where recklessness puts you.”

You nod, frantic, not even trying to hide how close you are. When he lets go of your throat, you slump forward, forehead slamming to the window. The orgasm rips through you, your body spasming, clinging to him as you come.

He pulls out before the waves have even finished rolling through you, spins you around, shoves you over the arm of the couch. Your body is ragdoll loose, nerves frayed. He spits in his palm, slicks himself, then pushes into your ass with no warning.

The burn is immediate, shocking enough to pull a sound from your throat that’s so broken, it doesn’t even sound like you. Your fingers claw at the couch arm, knuckles whitening as your body tries—and fails—to pull away. He doesn’t give you space to adjust, just keeps one hand on your hip, the other clamps over your mouth.

“Quiet,” he orders, voice sharp now. “I didn’t say you could come, did I?”

He pushes deeper in increments, forcing you to feel every inch, every stretch. His grip over your mouth tightens, tilting your head back until your spine arches helplessly. The angle steals your breath, makes your head swim.

The pain doesn’t disappear—it transforms. It sharpens into something unbearable and intimate, pressure blooming into heat, into need you don’t want to acknowledge. You feel too open, too exposed, and the vulnerability makes your stomach twist.

He sets a slower rhythm this time, each thrust deep, dragging out the ache. You can feel him everywhere—inside you, behind you, above you—no space left to pretend this isn’t exactly what he wants you reduced to.

You’re sobbing now, but you don’t want it to stop. Every inch of you aches for him, for the way he tears through every gentle part of you. This is exactly what you wanted. He knows it. And now you know it, too.

He chokes you again until your thoughts slip sideways, your world narrowing to the sound of his breath and the sting of his grip. Your vision flickers. Your pulse thuds loud in your ears. When your knees threaten to give, he holds you there, keeping you suspended on the edge of sensation and panic.

“Say it,” he murmurs. “Say you understand.”

Your voice comes out thin. “I—I understand.”

“That’s not enough.”

You swallow. “I won’t disobey you again.”

That earns a rough sound from him; not approval, not even pleasure. Something darker. He thrusts harder, faster now, using your ass without restraint, chasing his release with ruthless efficiency.

Then, just as you start to fade, he pulls out, spinning you to your knees. He fists himself, face set in that same mask of irritation and control. Hot, bitter stripes paint your face—across lips, chin, cheekbones. The heat and humiliation land together. You don’t look away. You don’t close your eyes. You take it because he’s taught you how.

Masumi breathes hard, eyes narrowed. “Lesson learned?” he asks, wiping himself on your discarded shirt before tucking himself away.

You nod, swallowing everything you can’t say.

He yanks your chin up, making you look at him. “Don’t fuck up again.”

He leaves the empty bottle on the table, the door slamming behind him. The echo lingers.

You’re left kneeling on the carpet, breath shallow, body throbbing with pain and something else—something bottomless and new and impossible to shake.

You press your tongue against your teeth, tasting champagne and salt and him. Your thighs tremble when you try to stand. There are bruises already forming along your throat, your hips, fingerprints you’ll have to hide tomorrow.

Your pulse is still racing. Your lungs still burn. Every nerve in your body is awake.

You drag yourself to the couch and sink down slowly, wincing, fingers ghosting over your skin like you’re checking it’s all still yours.

Alive. Very much alive.

You close your eyes and let your head fall back. Valentine’s night isn’t damp and unwanted anymore. It’s under your skin.