Pairing: Aizawa Kousaku/Hiyama Mihoko (Code Blue; aka Yamapi/Toda Erika)
Word Count: 2,385
Summary: Based on these pictures. Aizawa is fucking pissed off and he takes it out on Hiyama. Hot doctor sex ensues.
Note: For sanctified_x because she wanted Yamapi and Toda Erika to fuck. So I wrote it. Enjoy! (PS. How is this for my first straight and non-Arashi fic/porn? Can you dig it?)
Aizawa hung his head over the sink in the bathroom, knuckles turning white from clutching the porcelain. He was regulating his breathing, deep and even through his nose, trying to quell the feeling attacking his gut. There was anger, first and foremost, followed by frustration. But the most unsettling feeling hemming all the rest, was that envy? He splashed water on his face in an attempt to cool the embers smouldering in his belly and went to the locker room.
He could understand being stripped of his privileges when he had gotten cocky and neglected his patients and nearly caused one of them – not just ‘one of them’, Nishiguchi-san – to die. The punishment had befitted the crime and he learned quickly from his mistakes. But even when he had done something right and saved a life, Kuroda-sensei took the wireless radio away anyway. Worst of all, he gave it to Shiraishi; if it couldn’t be him, it should’ve at least been Hiyama.
He stood before his open locker, removing the bits and pieces of his uniform, deep in thought. He couldn’t expect to be the one to ride all the time, but this shouldn’t be bothering him so much. He didn’t hear the door or the light footsteps of crème Converse enter the room.
“Hm.” It didn’t even register whether the voice came from a man or a woman.
“I heard you finally got that drugged-out college kid to show you some respect.” The metallic clang of a locker door opening and assorted items being replaced with care echoed in the dimly lit room. Aizawa emptied the pens from his shirt pocket without responding.
“So, you’re off now?” After a moment, the other person paused with one hand on the door of their locker while the other pulled a pair of faded jeans from within; he remained silent. “What the hell is your problem, Aizawa?”
“What?” He turned finally to see Hiyama staring him down with a fierce look in her eyes.
“Are you pissed off because you don’t get to ride in the helicopter tomorrow?”
The fatigue of working the night shift slowed his response time and muddled his thoughts. It irked him even more to think that he hadn’t even been scheduled to work in the first place. “Yes. No. That’s not—”
“You can’t be the superstar doctor all the time, you know,” she cut him off. Hiyama pulled the shirt of her scrubs over her head and chucked it into the recesses of her locker, revealing a white tank top underneath. She glared at him through bangs that fell into her eyes. “It isn’t all about you.”
“Hey!” The heat in his gut flared at her accusation. He turned to face her, keeping the safety of the bench between them. “Just because you screwed up and Kuroda-sensei didn’t throw the radio at you, don’t take it out on me.”
“I didn’t screw up,” she argued in a low voice. She tossed her hair out of her eyes. Anger had brought a pink flush to her cheeks and a glint to her wide eyes.
“Not this time,” he retorted, voice deep and dangerous. He turned back to his own locker and removed the last of his professional accessories, hanging the phone on one of the hooks on the door before peeling off his own shirt. So focused on reigning in his agitation, he didn’t notice Hiyama standing too much in his personal space with a murderous set to her lips.
“I will not have you holding that over me for the rest of my career. Don’t think you’re such hot shit because you bailed me out. Once.”
“You know what?” he countered, rounding her small frame until the row of lockers was at her back. “I am hot shit. I am and you know it. I’m the best doctor out of all of us and you all know it.
“Then why did the, quote, “best doctor” need an assist on that drunk today?”
“I didn’t need your help.”
“You couldn’t have done it alone. If Shiraishi hadn’t told you where to even start looking, he would have bled out all over that tab—”
And then he was kissing her.
He closed the short distance between them and backed her into the lockers a little more forcefully than was necessary, metal doors crashing in their frames, items rattling inside, as he took her small face in his large hands and pressed his lips to hers just to shut her up.
That name was like a burst of oxygen igniting the coals in his belly and he needed her to stop talking right now and if he used his own mouth, he thought, he might get away with being be accused of only sexual harassment instead of physical assault.
He didn’t know what he had been expecting, exactly: A shove, a punch in the chest, a slap across the face, a shriek of disgust, a scream of protest, maybe. What he got was a tiny hand clutching his arm pulling him closer while the other steadied itself on his waist, splayed across the flat plains of his stomach accompanied by a surprised gasp and the determined press of her lips and tongue as she kissed him back.
Maybe it was the lack of sleep – both of them had ambitiously worked through the night unscheduled. Maybe it was the stress of being held fully responsible – it had been his decision to operate and she had even tied his gown. Maybe it was the stress of being on guard and on their toes every hour of every shift, even when they were assigned such menial and mundane tasks as doing rounds or cleaning bedpans – something that should have been relegated to nurses and first year med students, not certified doctors – in hopes that they might be chosen that day for the transient prize of riding in the helicopter. Or maybe he was just strung-out and horny as hell. And apparently so was she, if the manicured fingers dipping into the waistband of his scrubs were any indication.
His knee nudged between hers and he pressed her further into the lockers with his thigh, making her rise to her toes in a half-hearted effort not to grind down onto his leg that was soon abandoned and forgotten. His hands left her face, palms sliding down her bare arms, rather than down her chest only because there was no room between them, to the hem of her white shirt. He stopped kissing her, causing them both to realize just how breathless they had become, and tugged the shirt up. She lifted her arms gracefully and then shirt came off without protest, her hair falling about her shoulders in messy waves. Her simple nude bra trimmed with lace followed shortly after.
His lips attacked hers again, an animalistic ritual of teeth and tongues, attempting to sate a hunger he didn’t know he had. He moved from her bruised lips to her pulse and latched on to the flutter underneath the skin; a short cry from her echoed off bare walls and steel as his hands encircled her waist to keep her balanced as he lifted his leg higher between the apex of her thighs, his growing arousal grinding against her navel.
The higher he drove her, the tighter she clutched at him. Smalls hands clung to his broad, tanned shoulders, wanting to fist themselves in his hair but that didn’t steady her much as she balanced on her toes. His advantage in height finally lifted her clean off the ground and she didn’t quiet trust him enough to keep her from falling so she wrapped her legs around his middle. His hands slid from her waist to her hips and then around back as he separated them from the lockers; he had enough sense to move them towards the counter lining the back wall, the rankling sound of metal on metal behind them becoming rather obvious to those passing through the hallway outside.
He deposited her on the counter gently enough and resumed marking the skin of her neck and shoulders with his lips and teeth. He brushed her hair back and ran his hands down her chest, halting as erect nipples brushed his palms. Her hands skated down his stomach, over the defined musculature of his abdomen; she faltered with the string of his pants as his surgeon’s fingers pinched and rolled and tugged in all the right delicate motions. He dipped his head and licked a trail down her chest, leaning her back on the counter until her shoulder blades made contact with the frigid mirror. A sharp inhale of breath at the icy surface on her overly warm skin and her back bowed beautifully, closing the distance between his mouth and her left nipple. The roughness of his taste buds raking across her skin only caused her to arch further into him, crying for more.
While he paid the other breast equal attention, she snaked her hand past the waistband of his navy blue scrubs and cotton boxers. She palmed his cock, warm, hard and heavy in her hand, and he hummed against the skin of her breasts; hot breath tingled over the wetness his tongue left behind as she encircled him with her fingers and began to massage and mould him to a perfect erection. Even with her hand trapped between them, he could feel the damp warmth radiating from her. He nipped his way back to her parted lips, commanding her tongue with his, while he pulled her hips flush against his, swallowing her moan as well as his own.
He knew she was ready by the squeeze of her knees around his waist, pulling herself closer, grinding harder against him and her own hand, and the breathy whines she couldn’t help but produce every time she did. He paused and looked into her eyes, dark and cloudy with nothing but lust. The message was loud and clear: I want to the fuck the shit out of you.
He kissed her hard once more before breaking away to rummage in his locker. He returned with a small foil package which she plucked from his fingers.
“Responsible,” she said with a smirk.
“Always,” he replied, descending on her mouth again to arrest any further discussion.
He hooked his index and middle fingers into the waistband of her scrubs and slid them and her panties down her slender legs. They caught on her shoes which were soon kicked them off so he could divest her of her pants along with her socks. She sat there on the counter, unabashed and unashamed in her nudity, watching him watch her. He stepped between her thighs and watched her face as he reached a hand down past her belly. He watched her expression fall open and vulnerable as he navigated slick folds and found that small nerve that created such big pleasure. The insides of her thighs were already soaked and it didn’t take more than a few strokes of his calloused finger to make her come.
Before she had even caught her breath, her hands were pushing his pants down just far enough to release his cock. His hands strayed to her hips, the pressure of his fingers painting a polka dot pattern on her fair skin, while hers tore the foil wrapper and outfitted his dick with the condom. He tugged her to the edge of the counter while she guided him to her entrance.
His hands fanned across her smooth thighs as he held her in place, driving long and deep into her soft body. She was so small and slight, so hot and tight, it was an effort to keep his rhythm and pace and not be violent in his thrusting, lest he leave lasting marks. But there was no mistake here: this was nothing more, nothing less, than instinctual fucking. The rage in his gut was threatening to consume him, the anger within making him snap his hips just a little bit harder each time so that he could hear the air leave her lungs in shallow gasps each time he did. He angled her higher, extending one leg over his shoulder so that she was leaning back on her hands but her elbows began to buckle at the crest of a second orgasm.
Leaning back against the glass, she focused on his face and he could see the intensity in her eyes. Everything would be a race, a contest, between them and this was no different. He felt her squeeze him from the inside, determined not to come again before he did. She locked her ankles behind his back, digging in her heels, pulling him closer and closer, rolling up to meet him at each beat.
His breathing laboured and the muscles in his arms and chest flexed as his grip on her tightened; and she knew she had won when his head fell back and he let out a deep, groan that smoothed itself into a satisfied hum as he enjoyed a few last, lazy strokes before pulling out and letting go.
She crumpled against the mirror breathless and let her legs relax, dangling off the edge. Her skin was flushed and shining, pieces of hair clinging to her face and shoulders; he looked much the same, catching his reflection as he tied off the condom and disposed of it. He retrieved her pants from the bench where they had landed and handed them to her.
They dressed in companionable silence. There wasn’t much to be said. The only thing that came to mind was, “Hey, thanks for the thorough fucking. We’ll have to do it again sometime,” but he didn’t think that would go over so well, even if that’s exactly what they had done. He vaguely wondered if this would change something or if it might come back to bite him one day, but Hiyama had known what she was doing. And on some level, he trusted her. He couldn’t explain it because there had been nothing at all before this. He had just been so angry and at what, he didn’t know, but nobody tells Aizawa Kousaku what to do. He didn’t regret it; he's never regretted any of his decisions, even if they turned out to be the wrong ones.