His Possession (OLITZ /Scandal - short stories) - Chapter 12: Chapter 12

The smell hits him first—sun-warm peaches, sticky and ripe, simmering with something golden and buttery.
Fitz blinks into light.
It's everywhere—sunlight flooding through gauzy white curtains, catching dust motes midair, gilding cluttered countertops and worn wood floors.
And her.
Barefoot, wild curls pinned messily on top of her head, Olivia stands at the stove, stirring a bubbling pot with one hand while sneakily licking jam from a spoon with the other.
She's wearing one of his old Navy t-shirts. It slides off one shoulder, the hem skimming her upper thighs like a teasing afterthought.
Fitz's breath catches. His body reacts before his brain can catch up.
"You gonna help," she says, not even turning around, "or just stand there like a guy who's never seen legs before?"
He's at her back in three strides, arms snaking around her waist. He presses his nose into the curve of her neck, inhaling peaches and Olivia and sunlight.
"What are we making again?"
"Peach jam," she murmurs, leaning back into him like she belongs there. Like she never left.
He dips a finger into the pot and tastes. "Too sweet."
She smirks. "Liar. You love it too sweet."
His voice drops. "Only when it's you feeding it to me."
The air shifts—thickens. Her breath catches. He feels it. She sets the spoon down with trembling fingers.
"Kids still at school?" he asks against her neck.
"Field trip."
"We've got time."
"For what, exactly?" she teases, even as her ass press back against his growing arousal.
He turns her gently. Reverently. "For this."
The kiss starts tentative, hesitant, like memory made flesh. Then she fists the front of his shirt and drags him closer, her mouth hot and greedy against his.
They stumble, laughing, into the table. Chairs scrape. Dishes rattle. Kisses grow deeper, wilder, until he lifts her up, sets her down hard on the edge.
"Here?" she gasps, legs wrapping around his waist. Fitz is so hard, so ready.
He noses along her jaw, voice husky. "You wanted grounded. This is grounded."
She laughs, breathless—then moans when his hands slide under the shirt and find bare skin.
"Fitz..."
"Say it again."
"Fitz."
His name in her mouth is heat and holiness.
They make love like it's tradition. Like they've always done it here and always will. Jam simmers, forgotten. Her thighs tighten around him. His forehead touches hers.
No words. Just breath and skin and the kind of closeness that erases time.
Later, tangled in each other, still atop the table, Olivia sighs.
"You've ruined this shirt for me."
He grins against her shoulder. "You're not supposed to wear it in public."
"It's scandalous now."
"Exactly."
Her voice is quiet. "Sometimes I think... maybe we could be this. Normal."
Fitz stills. "Like this?"
She nods. "Like this."
He kisses her—softer, slower—and the world goes white.
Olivia's Apartment — Morning
The city hums outside Olivia's window—distant horns, a dog barking, the faint clatter of a garbage truck. Inside, sunlight slices across the hardwood. Abby is already halfway through her coffee-fueled press rant, gesturing wildly, when Olivia lifts a hand, eyes distant.
"Pause. I had a dream."
Abby blinks, mug halfway to her lips. "Was I in it? Please say I was in it. I could use a vacation from reality."
Olivia shakes her head, the memory tugging at her. "No. Worse. I was in Vermont."
Abby snorts, nearly spilling her coffee. "Oh God. Dream Vermont or Kidnap Vermont?"
A wistful smile flickers at Olivia's lips. "Peach jam Vermont."
Abby clutches her mug like a lifeline. "Wait—jam? Were you canning fruit? Olivia Pope was domesticating produce?"
"There were jars, Abby. With little handwritten labels. My handwriting." Olivia's voice is soft, almost reverent, as if she's afraid the dream might shatter if she says too much.
Abby gasps, eyes wide. "You used labels? Who even are you? Next, you'll tell me you were wearing a gingham apron and humming folk songs."
Olivia's cheeks burned. "I was barefoot. In his shirt. Giggling."
Abby chokes on her coffee, hacking out a laugh. "Giggling? You giggled? Should I call Huck or just go straight for the exorcist?"
Olivia groans, burying her face in her hands as the memory lingers—warm sunlight on her skin, the scent of peaches, laughter bubbling up from somewhere she'd forgotten existed. "There was table sex."
Abby wheezes, fanning herself. "Oh, sweet Martha Stewart on moonshine. You had barefoot counter sex with Fitz in a jam-scented hallucination? I need a minute. No, I need a whole new worldview."
Olivia's voice is quiet, almost wondering. "I'm deeply concerned for my subconscious."
Abby grins, leaning in, eyes twinkling. "I'm deeply delighted by it. Do you think your ovaries are just staging a coup now? Like, 'We want jam and babies, dammit!'"
Olivia laughs, but there's a longing in it, a soft ache she can't quite shake. "I need a lobotomy."
Abby raises her mug in salute. "You need a cabin. And maybe a peach tree. And, apparently, a warning label: 'Contents may giggle unexpectedly.'"
Outside, a siren wails, but inside, the air is thick with the scent of coffee, the echo of dreams, and the possibility of something sweeter than either of them will admit.
The White House — Same Morning
Jake is halfway through sipping bourbon out of a coffee mug because D.C. stress has no time for convention, when Fitz barrels into the office like a man on a mission.
Jake raises an eyebrow, eyeing Fitz's wild hair and haunted expression. "You look like you saw a ghost. Or, God forbid, Mellie's approval rating."
Fitz ignores the jab, pacing like a caged lion. "I'm in love with her."
Jake nearly chokes on his bourbon, coughing theatrically. "Did you hit your head? Or did you finally read the comments section on your last speech?"
"Olivia," Fitz says, voice raw. "I dreamed it. Her. Us. Real. No titles. No bodyguards. Just jam and... joy."
Jake sets his mug down with a thunk, narrowing his eyes. "Fitz, that sounds less like a dream and more like a fever hallucination brought on by loneliness and excessive time in the produce aisle."
Fitz's jaw sets. "I'm not asking your permission."
Jake scoffs, jealousy flashing across his face. "Good. Because you definitely don't have it. In fact, I'd like to formally file a complaint."
Fitz doesn't flinch, his eyes burning with conviction. "I'm not walking away again. Not this time."
Jake leans forward, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Does she even want that? Or was she just dreaming of jam because she's low on vitamin C? Maybe she just likes peaches, Fitz. Maybe she likes them a lot."
Fitz softens, the bravado slipping. "I don't know," he admits, quieter now. "But if she dreamed it too... maybe she already does."
Jake glares, grabbing his mug and muttering under his breath. "I hope you both get a fruit fly infestation."
Fitz, for the first time in weeks, smiles.
Olivia's Apartment — Later
The apartment is quieter now, the morning rush faded to a gentle lull. The faint aroma of coffee lingers, mingling with the distant city sounds—a car horn, the low rumble of the elevator, the soft thud of footsteps in the hallway. Abby's halfway out the door, her laughter echoing off the walls as she slings her bag over her shoulder.
"So," Abby calls, grinning mischievously, "are you gonna call Mr. President Peach Cobbler, or should I text him a jam emoji and see what happens?"
Olivia stands in the doorway, her hand resting on the frame, caught between amusement and something softer, something almost wistful. "No. Maybe. I don't know." She bites her lip, the memory of the dream still warm in her mind, sticky-sweet and impossible to shake. There's a flutter in her chest she can't quite name.
Abby pauses, her head tilted, eyebrow arched with all the subtlety of a neon sign. "Liv. You can't outthink a dream like that. That's not logic. That's longing. Your subconscious is waving pom-poms and yelling 'Go team Vermont!'"
Olivia groans, pressing her forehead to the doorframe, but there's a reluctant smile tugging at her lips. "I'm banning peaches. Effective immediately. All forms, all recipes. Contraband."
Abby winks, already halfway into the hallway, her voice trailing back with a cackle. "And men in t-shirts? Or just the ones who make you giggle in your sleep?"
"That too," Olivia says, but her voice is softer, the protest half-hearted. She watches Abby disappear down the hall, the apartment settling around her like a secret, the taste of longing lingering long after the door clicks shut.
That Night
The city glows beyond Olivia's windows—amber streetlights painting shifting patterns on the walls. The apartment is steeped in shadows and anticipation, the air thick with the scent of wine and something unspoken. Her bare feet whisper across the hardwood, every movement deliberate, her pulse thrumming with memory and want. She tries not to think of jam, of dreams, of longing—but it's everywhere, sweet and insistent.
A soft, familiar knock shatters the silence.
She opens the door.
Fitz stands there, framed by the hallway glow—jeans riding low on his hips, white t-shirt hugging his body, a brown paper bag dangling from his fingers. His eyes are dark, hungry, and fixed on her.
"Fitz," she breathes, voice trembling with everything she's trying to hide.
He grins, slow and wicked. "I brought peaches."
She stares, heat blooming beneath her skin. "Are you drunk?"
He steps inside, the door closing behind him with a quiet click. "Only on the idea of us." His gaze rakes over her, lingering on her lips, her bare shoulders. "Why let a perfectly good dream go to waste?"
He sets the bag on the counter, never breaking eye contact. The room seems to shrink, the world narrowing to the space between them—charged, electric, inevitable.
"You were happy, Liv," he says softly.
She tries to deflect, her voice shaky. "You were barefoot. It was ridiculous."
His smile turns tender. "And perfect."
He closes the distance, his hands finding her waist, thumbs stroking bare skin beneath her shirt. "You wore my shirt..."
"It was soft," she whispers, her breath hitching as his fingers slip higher.
"It was sinful," he murmurs, his mouth grazing her ear. The words are a promise, a dare.
She shivers, her resolve melting. "Do not weaponize fruit."
He laughs, low and dangerous, his lips brushing her jaw. "Too late. I dreamed it too, Olivia. Every detail."
She falters, the last of her resistance unraveling. He takes her hand, spinning her gently until she's pressed against him, their bodies fitting together as if the dream had written this moment into their bones.
Their mouths crash—hungry, desperate, tasting every second they've lost.
She gasps when he lifts her onto the counter, the bag of peaches tumbling to the floor, forgotten. His hands are everywhere—greedy, reverent, mapping her skin as if he could memorize her all over again.
"Kitchen table's too far," he growls against her throat, voice thick with need.
"You really remember the table?" she pants, fingers tangled in his hair.
He pulls back just enough to meet her gaze, eyes burning. "I remember everything."His fingers traced her jawline.
Her shirt slips from her shoulders, pooling at her waist before falling away. He follows, his hands reverent, their bodies bare and illuminated by citylight. Every curve of her honeyed skin, every secret place he used to know by heart, now rediscovered with breathless urgency. He places a hand on her lower back, guiding her with tender care.
With a gasp, she presses into him—soft and firm and so achingly real. Their lips meet again, desperate, all-consuming. There's no space between them now, just the friction of skin and the sound of breath hitching, lips parting, moans low and raw against the hollow of each other's throats.
They undress with hands that tremble but do not falter. His fingers slip beneath the lace at her hips, and she helps him, shimmying free, her thighs brushing against his. He kisses down her neck, across her collarbone, then lower, tasting the edge of control he's barely holding onto.
"I missed you." The words are a litany, a benediction, a surrender. "God, I missed you."
Moans echo off the walls, mingling with laughter and whispered confessions.
"Fitz..." she exhales, breath broken, her voice a velvet thread.
He lifts her easily, her legs wrapping around his waist, their mouths never parting. Their bodies meet with slow precision—first a glide, then a thrust that makes her cry out, her fingers clawing at his shoulders. He groans, forehead pressed to hers.
Their rhythm builds, slow then urgent, then slow again.
"Liv, I'm yours," He whispers her name like a prayer, like a promise.
"Take me, Fitz." She arches beneath him, moaning louder now, hips rising to meet his, matching him stroke for stroke, their bodies singing in sync, slick with sweat and longing.
Every thrust is a confession. Every moan, a memory resurrected.
Fitz kisses her deeply, hungrily, as she trembles beneath him, her nails raking down his back. The tension coils and tightens—sharper, faster, harder.
"Oh, Fitz, so good!" When she comes, it's with a gasp, her whole body tightening around him, pulling him deeper into the heat of her release.
"Liv, love you, oh god, love you!" He follows moments later, burying himself in her as he groans her name into the hollow of her neck, their bodies locked, hearts pounding like war drums in the dark.
And then—stillness.
Only the hum of the city beyond the window and the sound of shared breath.
He cradles her face, brushing hair from her cheek, eyes shining with something fragile and true. She smiles, lips swollen and tender, her hand resting over his racing heart.
They are home. In this room. In each other.
Later, tangled on the cool floor, Fitz reaches for a fallen peach, biting into it, juice running down his chin. He offers it to her, eyes glinting with mischief and adoration.
She watches him, lips curling. "Worked up an appetite..?"
He grins, holding the fruit to her mouth. "Want some?"
She leans in, licking the juice from his lips, savoring the taste of him, the sweetness, the salt. "Sweet enough for me," she murmurs, her voice thick with satisfaction.
He kisses her temple, gentle now, reverent. "You gonna tell Abby?"
She laughs, breathless. "She'll smell it on me."
He chuckles, nuzzling her neck. "You gonna tell Jake?"
"Only if I want to make him cry."
Their laughter is soft, intimate, filling the space between heartbeats.
"You dream of jam," he whispers, brushing her hair from her face. "You wake up in chaos."
She smiles, eyes shining. "But I woke up with you." He cups her face, thumb tracing her cheek, and she leans into his touch, letting her eyes flutter, fingers intertwined, sharing an unspoken language of moments of silence, their hands sought each other, seeking reassurance.
For now, there are no titles, no headlines, no history pressing in. There is only the hush of night, the taste of peaches, the warmth of skin on skin, and the kind of love that lingers—thick as syrup, sweet as longing, endless as the city lights outside.