#she got distracted in trying to get top left orange guy to revolt with her so she doesn't fulfill her programming yet (hence the movie) | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

inflagranteinnuendo · 6 years

Note

i loved your suits x svu crossover with barba!! i know christine is in med school from an ask she answered a while back, could you write a grey's anatomy style crossover with barba?? love your blog girls x

Happy holidays les amis! :)

long ass pre-scriptum before this long ass fic:

i was in a fancy ass gourmet salad place downtown a few days ago and it’s a place where the waitstaff learns your name when you order. So whoever attends the table calls you by your name and i didn’t think much of it until this Sharply Dressed Gentleman™️ one table over suddenly got up, strode over, greeted me by my first name, and asked for my number.

can i just say i was really glad that i didn’t have salad stuck between my teeth anyways long story short i remembered this ask on my way home and was suddenly inspired

A story in 5 parts, set in New York, with foreplay consisting of words, a lot of sexy and feelings, and absurd, manipulative schemes.

A man crossed your periphery vision. Navy pinstripes, baby blue pocket square in a three-point fold, burgundy silk tie, dove grey dress shirt, clean-shaven jaw, slightly downturned lips, sharply curved nose, and preoccupied green eyes…

Your gazes cross. Distracted by your appreciation of this fine male specimen, you trip on your own two feet.

And upend the entire cup of your coffee down your front right in the middle of the cafeteria.

Your co-residents at the nearby tables unanimously clap in response, led by none other than Cristina Yang. You flush and let your head droop back in exasperation, sighing, as staff and visitors alike turn curiously toward the source of the lunchtime commotion.

“Very dignified, doctor,” Meredith Grey laughs. Fine male specimen forgotten, you frantically try to save your cellphone from a liquid death, and she thoughtfully fishes the stethoscope out of your coat pocket before you initiate the world’s first qualitative study on The Effect of Freshly Brewed Coffee on the Rate of (Overpriced) Stethoscope Tubing Degradation.

What a good friend.

“Let me get you napkins,” she says.

Slapping your cellphone on the table, you dejectedly drop down into a chair next to Cristina to await her return, grimacing at the feeling of rapidly cooling coffee against your skin.

“Still Bad Luck Week?” Cristina snickers around a mouthful of greens. “I told you. Get laid. A good dick will fuck the bad luck right outta you.”

“Turn around, Yang, bend over, I’ll show you where your advice fits in my stupid schedule,” you grumble, flinging a wet hand at her head. Laughing, she dodges the droplets that flew at her.

Meredith comes back with a fluffy Jenga tower of crappy cafeteria napkins, glowing that ungodly post-Derek-Shepherd-kiss kind of glow. You look past her, and…

Yep.

Dr. Derek Shepherd, MD, Msc, FACP –aka your off-service attending of the day– is cocking his head at you, his post-Meredith-Grey-kiss smile melting into a frown, silently marking you down on professionalism for disgracing his (and the hospital’s) good name with your attire.

You grimace at him and mouth a regretful ‘sorry’ in his direction.

He throws you an unimpressed glance when his next step lands him in the lake of coffee you left behind on the caf floor.

“Fuck. Grey, you gotta put in a good word for me with your boyfriend. Please. I just soiled his Reeboks. Bad Luck Week has gone on for twice as long as its name indicates,” you lament at Meredith and Cristina as you clumsily cover yourself with napkins that instantly bloom brown with your watered-down $2.35 coffee.

“Hang on, start from the beginning, I wanna hear this,” Meredith demands as she unashamedly dabs at your chest.

“It all started when I was given the wrong room number for the morbidity and mortality rounds. The email said sub-basement 4, room 5046. And do you know what sub-basement 4, room 5046 is?”

“Uh… no?”

“It’s a fucking unisex wheelchair-accessible bathroom.”

Cristina guffaws and Meredith sprays spits all over your face. “A-a uni-unisex wh-wheel-wheelch-” she wheezes, tears of hysteria welling up at the corners of her eyes.

Scowling, you grab yet another napkin from the depleting Jenga tower and wipe dots of her saliva off your face. Gross. She had just kissed Shepherd. “And then, I was locked between the OR door and the offices when my card magically demagnetized. And I had to spend 15 minutes trapped in that hallway, trying to convince security that I was an actual staff with an actual medical degree who has actually been paged for an actual laparoscopic cholecystectomy that has my actual name beside it on the actual procedure board –”

“Excuse me?” A voice interrupts.

Meredith and Cristina were still hiccuping, faces red, spines curved, heads between their knees, so you take the responsibility of whirling around toward the source of the voice.

What the actual fuck.

It was the fine male specimen from earlier.

He speaks again but this time, he enunciates your earned title, and puts an upward inflection at the tail of your last name as it shapes his lips.

And you acutely feel underdressed in your coffee-drenched attire and stolen cafeteria napkins when you spot the silver gleam of cufflinks, peeking through his impeccably stiff dove grey shirtsleeves, with an engraving that reads “RB” –his initials, you presume.

“Uh. Yes?” You very eloquently enquire, mouth dry.

Bless your white coat, soiled with coffee as it is. There was no way a man like RB would’ve ever mistaken you for a physician if you hadn’t been wearing it.

Cristina’s head snaps up and she eyes the man with a mix of appreciation and calculation.

“Hi,” he greets the three of you with a nod.

Meredith has finally stopped laughing and is watching your exchange like she’s watching a tennis match, head swinging back and forth between you and RB.

“I overheard your story about how bad of a week, or two, you’re having,” RB continues, now only addressing you with a singular focus and a slight smile. “My name is Rafael Barba. I work as a prosecutor for the DA’s office.”

Your eyes widen with every word that came tumbling out of his mouth. You watch, flabbergasted, as he reaches into his pinstriped suit jacket and slides a business card on the table by your damp phone. You stare down at the card, absent-mindedly slapping Cristina’s hand away when she stealthily reached for it.

“I don’t usually do this,” Rafael Barba boldly says with a small self-satisfied smirk, dispelling all notion that he was introducing himself in a professional capacity. “But I saw how you looked at me earlier –”

Your eyes snap up to his, cheeks immediately flushing red. He notices, and his smile grew. “–and you’ve really made my day with your stories, so please give me a call –”

He leans down and scrawls a number at the back of the business card, blessing you with a whiff of his woodsy cologne.

“–at this number when you have the time.”

Rafael Barba patiently waits, as if he had all the time in the world, for a sign that you understood.

You swallow and nod, still dripping with lukewarm coffee.

Then, with a last smile, and a faint ‘nice to meet you’, he turns and strolls out the cafeteria without a backward glance.

“What the fuck,” Cristina whispers softly. “And you think you’re wet?”

The huge Trump tower looms over you in all its judgemental glory and you frown up at it, judging it back, all the while feeling misplaced and underdressed once again. It was becoming a theme with this Barba guy. Maybe he was a loaded, die-hard republican, coasting on daddy dearest’s legacy. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe you can just fuck him and that’d be it, he’d be out of your system and you can move on to bigger things.

“Jean Georges?” You demand in your airiest voice, trying to pass off as about 900 000 times more French and nonchalantly rich than you actually are.

“Right this way, ma’am.”

You consciously smooth down a scowl as you were guided through to Jean Georges Vongerichten’s pretentious eatery.

When Rafael Barba had suggested on the phone that you meet him at this particular restaurant, you’d shrugged and accepted without asking questions. Sampling every crook and cranny of your bed –not world class restaurants– was what you did in your free time. So when a quick Google search spit out the location of Jean Georges (Trump International Hotel & Tower New York), you were imbued with a Strong Sense of Civil Responsibility and took it upon yourself to extend your research in order to cover ADA Rafael Barba (Manhattan prosecutor, Straight Outta South Bronx, Harvard law) and his political affiliations (unspecified).

Due diligence is normally not part of your pre-date routine, but a dignified girl has to uphold her standards.

Meredith had been completely outraged when she’d learnt where you were meeting him, but Cristina had sat you down and painted your lips the colour of fresh arterial spray, and told you that good dick is good dick, but don’t fuck this abogado if he stinks too much of that orange stench.

A maître d’hôte greets you at the entrance. “Reservation under Barba,” you announce, before taking in your lush surroundings. Swallowing your apprehension, you realize that ending up under Barba this evening is becoming less likely as the night wears on… and you haven’t even laid eyes on him yet. Everything screams money, from the embroidered napkins to the people using them to dab at their botoxed lips. Thoughts arise, unimpeded, to the forefront of your mind –of one your patients wasting away, unable to afford the standard of treatment.

Your skin crawls in revolt.

You have never been more uncomfortable in your entire life. Despite wearing a dress that cost you about two months’ worth of rent, you self consciously straighten up in an attempt to push back at the aggressive shove that the sight of the top 1% gave you.

The maître d’hôte leads you toward your date’s table –and there Barba is, sipping at his water, eyes intently on you, following your form as you weave through the tables behind the maître d’hôte.

Barba stands up courteously from his seat when you reach him and smiles that small, smug smile at you again, perfectly at ease with being in the Trump International Hotel & Tower New York and Jean fucking George. And despite him wearing another sublime bespoke suit ensemble that looks like it would cost you the equivalent of your annual revenue as a surgical resident, you are completely and utterly disenchanted.

“Good evening, Mr. Barba,” you say in a tone dryer than the tannins ever bequeathed the bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon on the table. “What an interesting choice of restaurant.”

Under his hawk-like scrutiny, you sweep the back of your dress forward before settling down in the lily white seat among the richest lily white asses of NYC. His eyes do not dip down to your low neckline.

“Thank you, doctor,” he replies, nonplussed, nodding at the waiter in thanks before settling back down in his own seat. “Glad to know that you approve. You struck me as a woman with a taste for the finer things in life.”

While droning on about the differences between the prix fixe and the chef’s menus, the waiter tips the Cabernet Sauvignon over the crystal wine glasses. You tune him out to narrow your eyes at Barba over the stream of red spewing forth from the mouth of the bottle, wondering whether you could get away with breaking the stem of your glass and, in front of 30 live witnesses, stab Barba with the pointy tip –just for his comment.

Down, girl.

“We will have Chef Vongerichten’s selection, please, and a half-bottle of your 2007 Château Malartic-Lagravière, thank you,” you interrupt the waiter with a smile, then look back at your date, who doesn’t even blink at your ordering for the table. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Mr. Barba. Maybe the finer things that appeal to my palate don’t include you.”

“Yet,” he amends, without missing a beat.

You unceremoniously shove Barba onto the perfectly made bed before stopping to breathe while you take in the sight of him: hair tousled, pupils blown, lips swollen, tie loosened, half-undone belt askew.

“I can’t fucking believe you,” you hiss at him, kicking your heels off angrily. “Why would you do that to me?”

“I like my women riled up,” Barba drawled, slowly easing himself up to watch you perform the quickest strip-tease in the history of forever.

“What the fuck,” you bite out breathlessly with your hands on your hips, “is your problem? Don’t you think I’ve had enough crazy on the job? Couldn’t you have brought me to this nice, low key place where the fucking chef’s menu doesn’t divest you of several hundred dollar bills?”

Barba raised his eyebrows. “You’re the one who ordered some obscure Bordeaux off the cuff,” he retorts. “How about you stop trying to out-argue an attorney and divest yourself of that pretty bra?”

It was your turn to raise your eyebrows. “Well, Mr. Attorney, since you’re so good at arguing, why don’t you argue me out of it?”

He sits up fully to undo his tie, the motions of his wrists deliberately slow. “When did you realize–”

“–that you were fucking with me?” You scowl, crossing your arms.

“Well,” Barba pauses, letting the newly freed ends of his tie drape down his front. He leans back on his wrists to leer at the top of your tits, “that’s not entirely accurate. Technically, I haven’t fucked you yet–”

You step forward and he spreads his legs to accommodate you, pulling his trousers taunt across his crotch. “What makes you think,” you lean over him to leer at the line of his hardening cock, “that you are going to fuck me, not the other way around?”

“Tom-ay-to, tom-ah-to,” he whispers.

…un-fucking-real.

“You did all this to rile me up?” You ask, whipping his tie off his collar and pressing him backward with the weight of your own body. Down on the bed he goes, almost docilely, save for that predatory glint in his eyes. “That’s a… sizeable lump sum to invest in a one night stand.”

You suddenly find yourself on your back, dizzy and out of breath, staring up at a pair of sharp green eyes.

“Oh,” Barba says softly, reaching out to unhook the front clasp of your bra. “Is that what I am to you?”

“What else are we to each other?” You retort, gasping as he follows the line of your sternocleidomastoid with his lips and occasionally, his teeth. You reward him by undoing a button of his dress shirt each time he nips at your skin. When every button has been undone, he raises his head to kiss you.

“Even now, knowing that I’m not a complete asshole?” Barba huffs self-deprecatingly, breaking off the kiss. And he looks so vulnerable, especially with that stray curl of his hair over his furrowed brow, that you can’t help but smile.

“Who said you’re not a complete asshole? The burden of proof is on you, Mr. Barba,” you cheekily counter with a wink, though not unkindly.

An appreciative grin makes its way to Barba’s lips. He gives you another kiss, a deep, all-consuming one that has your guts twisting pleasantly. Was this a thank you kiss for not making fun of him?

“How high are your standards?” He wonders curiously, while unfastening his cufflinks and shrugging off his shirt. He chucks them carelessly to the side before leaning over you again.

“Beyond reasonable doubt,” you manage to gasp out as he gently tickles the tips of your nipples with his tongue.

You feel his chuckles vibrate through your thorax. “Of course,” he concedes, running a hand up and down the soft skin of your thighs, making you shiver. “The highest standard for the highest court in the land.”

A laugh escapes you before you could reign it in. “Did you just call me your workplace, the Supreme Court?”

He mouthes along the length of your sternum till your xyphoid process, as if performing some erotic median sternotomy, then obliquely, down the right costal margin of your ribs, simulating a Kocher’s incision. “Well… you are a piece of work.”

“Work at me then, Mr. Barba.”

“Oh, believe me, I will.” His fingers ghost linearly, above the line of your panties – Pfannenstiel, your mind supplies– and a sudden blaze of pleasure makes you arch your back.

He has barely even touched you and you’re already reacting this way.

“So, doctor,” Barba begins casually, propped up on a forearm beside the splay of your hair, as his fingers dip below the waistband of your panties. “You strike me as a woman who knows exactly what she likes in the bedroom.”

“And you strike me as a man who knows exactly how to please the highest court in the land,” you breathe against his lips, each words a kiss. And as he narrows in on your clit with astonishing precision, so does your focus. Unconsciously, you begin undulating your hips to meet the pads of his teasing fingers.

Then you realize that the possessive bastard is spelling out his own name against your pussy, but there’s nothing you can do to stop him now, because you are too busy tearing the 1000 thread count bedsheets apart with both hands and squirming up against his body, begging for more friction, for more of him, because your entire body is on fire, and he is gasoline, and only he can feed you this kind of pleasure, that possessive,

…R, possessive bastard,

…B, and his green,

…A, green eyes–

–and you come violently with a loud gasp, arching off the bed, head cradled against his forearm, thighs tensed and clenched around his.

“Fuck m-,” you pant, but the rest of your words are muffled against Barba’s curved lips as they press against your own in a bruising kiss.

He rips your panties off –this man does not waste any time. And so you don’t either. You reach down to unfasten his trousers, trying to stay single-minded on your task despite the highly distracting tricks that his tongue is playing on you. But you are drunk, much too drunk on the inoxicating liquor that is Rafael Barba.

He was right. You did have a taste for finer things in life, and he was one of them.

The third time you fail to unzip him, Barba laughs into your mouth and helps you out of pity. “What have you done to me,” you grumble at the ceiling as he kicks off his trousers and boxer briefs. “I transplanted a liver yesterday. Now look at me.”

“I’m not done with you yet,” he ominously cautions, rolling on a condom.

“By all means, counselor,” you taunt, running a hand through his chest hair. “Make your case.”

If Rafael Barba were anybody else, you would have kicked him in the nuts for being such a fucking tease.

“Beg for me.”

Eyes scrunched shut, bottom lip bitten through, you hiccuped before shaking your head defiantly at him. “Those your opening arguments when you try your cases?”

In retaliation for your remark, Barba runs the tip of his cock from your clit down to your entrance again, parting the soaked lips of your pussy to rest himself there for what seemed to be the 28th time. You were about to sob in desperation but one glance at his flushed face stopped you. Because, to your absolute delight, he looked as frustrated as you felt, if not more.

You’ve got to admire his tenacity, though.

“Beg,” he reiterates.

“Fuck you.”

“That’s the idea, doctor.”

He does it again and both of you groan at the filthy wet click of your pussy as the length of him slid around your clit. You clench on dissatisfactory emptiness, and suddenly, you’ve had enough.

It’s 2017, and you’re a strong, independent woman who knows exactly what you like.

This time, he was the one to find himself on his back, dizzy and out of breath, with you straddling him triumphantly, grinding yourself on the underside of his cock. “And what an excellent idea,” you purr, manhandling him into position.

As you sink down on him, his pupils progressively dilated, until his irises were mere rims around them. He blinks as you clench around him, and his fingers tighten on you, digging crevices into your hips as the girth of him splits you wide, and the length of him assails you crudely. You put one hand around the base of his neck for balance, the jump of his carotid quickening under your fingers as you did so.

Anchored, you begin snapping your hips forward, riding him hard and fast, never fully unsheathing him on your way back. And maybe it was the fact that an attorney always strives for control, or maybe he was too turned on to care, but his hands are restless –pushing you further down on him, squeezing your tits roughly, roaming your thighs, making you sigh, making you shiver.

Abruptly, Barba surges up, steadying you with a hand in the back of your neck when his change in position almost threw you off him. He pulls you closer to him while he rocks up into you. The intensity in his eyes makes you falter and it’s almost too much for you, too real, too sudden, too significant, so you let your eyelids flutter shut to distance yourself from that look when he rests his forehead against yours.

That was not a look you’d give a one night stand.

“Look at me,” his voice rumbles. “Don’t close your eyes.”

You bite your lip, choosing not to obey, but a sharp, deliberate twist of his hips makes you gasp, and your eyes fly open involuntarily.

“Rafael,” you stutter, floored at the exhibition of his tenderness as he traces your zygomatic arch and follows the line of it to tuck a strand of loose hair behind your ear. At the sound of his name, he shifts his hands to cradle your head as if you were precious to him, and you whimper helplessly against his lips when your heart skips several beats. Your lips can’t help but be drawn to his in a deep kiss, pouring in all the feelings you don’t have the courage to let yourself express.

You come before him, still lost in his eyes, silently, turbulently; and he, next, inhaling in your exhales, shuddering.

And for all your earlier exchanges of taunts and parries, silence.

He captures your lips in a slow, momentous kiss as the both of you wind down, and you finally yield to it, to whatever that has shifted between you in flagrante, letting your defensiveness and fear of intimacy recede with the tide of your high. Beneath your hand, Barba’s heart is still beating wildly, despite the languidness in his half-hooded green eyes and the relaxed set of his shoulders.

This is one perceptive man, your mind idly remarks, impressed, as he notices the change in you and breaks the kiss to look you in the eye.

“You ok?” Barba asks you softly, running a hand through your hair.

Dissatisfied with being away from his lips, you seek him out again and he indulges you for a moment before pulling back slightly.

“What’s wrong?” he persists, cupping the back of your head to make sure you can’t look away from him.

And that is really the problem with you, isn’t it? His intensity, his sincerity, his honesty –he makes you feel naked, like your soul has been bared to him, including all the indents that the ugliness of your cynicism and mistrust have made in it with ruthless picks and chisels.

“You’re not a complete asshole,” you whisper, rendering your verdict, feeling vulnerable and small in his embrace, “and I’m not sure I know what to do.”

Barba hums, leisurely stroking your back reassuringly. “When did you come to the conclusion that I wasn’t a complete asshole?”

In your mind’s eye, you replayed the end of that hellish dinner during which you both had tried to out-suave each other to death. “At the restaurant, when I brought up the incongruity between your stance against the principles of misogyny and your presence in the Trump Tower, and you had that look on your face, that’s when I realized…”

You trail off, distracted by the swirl of his tongue against the biphasic throbbing of your jugular.

“… that’s when I realized that you had voluntarily put yourself, and I, in the Trump Tower, not because your presence within was coherent with your political interests, but because you wanted me to make me uncomfortable.”

His hand stills between your scapulae.

“It made me so mad, when I realized that you played me. And that’s what you wanted, isn’t it? To have your women all riled up?” And you were halfway to getting riled up again just remembering how offended and outraged you had felt.

“That was a joke,” Barba half-apologized, half-explained, bending his neck to catch your eye.

You narrow your eyes at him, cheeks bright. “Then why –why the hell did you do that to me, and then –and then look at me like that, and then make me look at you while I–” you pause, biting your already mangled lip, flustered.

Rafael Barba smiles haltingly, slyly, mischievously, not unlike the blades of sunlight playing hide and seek, inadvertently piercing through swirls of tumulus clouds in their carelessness –and your breath hitches at the sight of him, sporting that smile, threatening you with traumatic pneumothorax.

“I wanted to make you very uncomfortable,” Barba murmurs, affectionately extricating your poor bottom lip from the grasp of your teeth with his thumb, “because you struck me as a woman of many faces. And when people are uncomfortable, they let their guard down. They can’t hide behind a façade.”

He glides his index down the bridge of your nose, drawing back the crumbled remnants of your resistance. Your heart lurches, acknowledging that no one has ever exposed you so completely, and knowing that no one will ever do so, after him.

Forehead to forehead, you stare at each other, all your cards laid down. There are no aces left up either of your sleeves, no defensive strategy left in either of your tactical minds.

Match point.

“I’m not like most people.”

“Yes,” he agrees. “That’s why it took the Trump Tower to find you.”

Your throat squeezes shut. “You went through all this trouble for –on our first date?”

Rafael Barba’s eyes are kind, and green, and limpid. “I was not only looking for the silly woman from the hospital cafeteria, who ended up dripping in coffee because she couldn’t look away from me.”

“Not only?” Is this what angina pectoris felt like?

“I saw you on the 6th floor, before we met in the cafeteria. You were fighting tooth and nail to get your patient on a clinical trial, but you were dismissed before you ever finished your arguments. And that flare of righteous anger. I was looking for that woman too, in the Trump Tower.”

This is exactly what angina pectoris felt like.

“Did you find her?” You ask shakily.

“I’m looking at her.”

(img credit x)

#rafael barba x reader #rafael barba #rafael barba x oc #law and order svu #grey's anatomy #crossover fic #rafael barba x you #you are a surgeon in this #and grey's is set in nyc because reasons #grey's characters appearances: yang grey and shepherd #ok this is so fucking long #it took me so fucking long #but here it is #christine writes shites #long ass shites that take a long ass time #but it's worth it i swear

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