A one-shot inspired by one of my favorite festive songs, Coldplay's Christmas Lights. Written for the Doux Bebe Archives holiday prompt challenge. I hope you enjoy it!
Christmas Lights
It's Christmas Eve and Fitz is sitting at the bar in a pub in Central London, steadily drinking away his sorrows. He's been here since two in the afternoon, when he came inside to escape the heavy snow and stayed because he had nothing better to do, and because there's a blazing fire and the bar staff are pleasant and - best of all - because there's no damn Christmas music playing. If it wasn't for the tinsel decorating the walls and the groups of loud, chatty friends with their stupid antler headbands and festive sweaters, he could almost convince himself it's just a normal day, and that he isn't about to spend his first Christmas alone.
It's been three weeks since his girlfriend of two-and-a-half years told him she was leaving, and actually meant it this time. It was their third break-up in the last twelve months and he knew it was coming, knew she was just as miserable as he was, knew she wasn't The One. But fuck, it still hurt to watch her cry; to see her pack up her things, half of their life together, and walk out the door. She's with her parents now, down in Sussex. The text she sent the following day to tell him that is the only contact they've had since. He suspects he'll never hear from her again - and he knows he'll be okay with that, soon. If it was any other time of year he'd probably have started to bounce back by now, but suddenly finding himself alone at Christmas, away from his family in the States, has left him thoroughly despondent.
Hence, the all-day drinking.
"Hey."
He doesn't think the greeting is directed at him, at first. He's playing on his phone, scrolling through Facebook for the thousandth time, bored out of his mind. He should really go home, get some food and fall into bed. But he hasn't yet moved out of his flat - their flat, which she's still all over - and he's been trying to spend as little time there as possible recently.
"Excuse me."
It's the same voice, and he glances up.
"Is anyone sitting here?"
The most beautiful woman he's ever seen is looking straight at him. Her eyes are dark brown, soulful and warm; her cocoa skin is glowing in the low light, her perfectly carved cheekbones brushed with a hint of peach, her lips glossy and curved in an inquisitive smile.
She literally - and he's not exaggerating here - she takes his breath away.
When she taps the empty bar stool beside him with her fingernails, the noise seems to return some of his senses.
"No," he says, or tries to, but it comes out broken and he has to clear his throat. "No one's there. You can take it."
"Oh. I was going to sit down. If that's okay?"
She's doing so anyway, even without his permission. He watches her legs as she raises first one, then the other onto the high seat. Clad in tight black denim, he has the sudden and overwhelming urge to hold onto her toned thighs with his hands, to feel their strength, to slide his palms up to the creases of her hips and see how her body responds. Without thinking, he lets his gaze roam upwards, to the narrow waistband of her jeans which lies well above her belly button and then the strip of bare brown skin before her red crop top begins. The rest of her is covered by a black leather jacket, its shoulders - like her curly hair - wet with melting snow.
"Wow," she says softly - and then he realizes what he's doing, and his heart drops out of his chest.
"My God. I am so sorry."
He meets her eyes again, expecting the worst - insult, hurt, anger - and he can see that she's taken aback, surprised by his very blatant appraisal but also… intrigued. Flattered. And he may not be particularly sober right now but, as he watches her look him up and down, he can tell she's attracted to him too. He can feel it. It's in the air: a spark; a prickle of anticipation running down his spine.
And he wants her.
He really wants her. He can count on two hands the number of times he and his ex-girlfriend slept together in the last few months - and even then it was forced, unenjoyable, profoundly unsatisfying. This woman, this total stranger with her soft American accent and her confidence, already has him more turned on that he can remember being in years.
She doesn't accept his apology, at least not verbally. She just shrugs a little and smiles; touches his knee with hers, although he's not sure if she meant to or if she's just getting comfortable. Still feeling bad, and not wanting anything to ruin his chances, Fitz feels the need to defend himself some more - but finds he doesn't know what to say. He tries to start a sentence numerous times while she is busy getting the bar tender's attention, seemingly ignoring him. Is that it? It can't be. This is the most alive he's ever felt.
He stares into his beer, his mind racing, desperately searching for a way to save the situation. But he needn't have worried: with a glass of red wine in her hand, she turns back to him.
"So. What are you doing here by yourself on Christmas Eve?"
He looks at her. She has already forgiven him. Or perhaps she thinks there was nothing to forgive? And more than that, he can tell she is genuinely interested: in making conversation; in him. There's a kindness to her, a caring side which he didn't sense straight away, but now it makes him want to pour his heart out.
Instead, he answers lamely: "Just... having a drink."
"I can see that."
"Of course you can." He shakes his head, embarrassed, and she laughs. "What about you?" he asks.
"I'm… avoiding my roommate."
"Oh. Why?"
She purses her lips, swirling her wine around, deciding what to say. "We slept together," she eventually confesses, meeting his eyes without a hint of shame. "We were drunk, I was on the rebound. Now it's just… super awkward."
"Ah."
"Yeah," she sighs. "I don't recommend it. Or rebounding in general, for that matter."
"Really?" Fitz subconsciously moves nearer, already fascinated by what she has to say. It's so refreshing to meet someone so honest. "I'm newly single, actually. Looking for all the advice I can get."
Her eyebrows rise ever so slightly, and it might be his imagination but he thinks her smile has gotten a little wider. "So I guess that explains why you're here," she comments, glancing briefly around the pub which is pretty full now - standing room only.
"Yep."
"Why did you choose this place?"
"I was just walking along aimlessly; then I got caught in the snowstorm."
She nods. "All the Brits are getting way too excited about a white Christmas. Apparently this never happens, especially in London."
"This is your first Christmas here then?"
"Yes."
"Where are you from?"
"New York."
He laughs. "So you're no stranger to white Christmases."
"Nope. And I hate snow. It's so cold, and then it goes all slushy and brown and then it freezes, and even going outside to buy milk is a hazard…"
"Such a Grinch," he teases, and it comes so naturally, and her giggle warms his soul.
"I am. I hate Christmas. Especially being single."
"When did you break up with your ex?"
"A couple weeks back. But we'd only been dating a few months, so I'm okay. What about you?"
"She left three weeks ago. We were together two-and-a-half years."
"Ouch." She's beautiful even when she grimaces. "I'm sorry. Do you want to talk about it?"
He takes a drink of his pint, wondering if he does. "There's not much to say. We both knew it wasn't going anywhere. She'd never leave England, and I want to go back home one day so… There was no future, you know?"
She nods, understanding in her eyes. "I do. I love living here, being in Europe, but I can't imagine staying in another country forever." There's a natural pause - in which his mind runs wild with the idea that this girl wants to move back across the Atlantic one day too, and that if they start dating it could all work out very nicely - before she changes the tone. "So, have you been here a while then, if you were dating an English girl?"
"Four years," he confirms.
"Wow. What do you do?"
"I'm a web developer. Very boring. What about you?"
"PhD student. Molecular neurobiology. Very boring," she mimics, and their laughter comes easily, as if they've known each other for years. "I'm Olivia, by the way."
He raises his glass to hers, excitement buzzing in his veins. "Nice to meet you, Olivia. I'm Fitz."
They talk for the next hour, endlessly and unstoppably - and the more he learns about her, the deeper he falls.
She is just amazing. Ridiculously smart, very funny and almost unbearably cute each time he compliments her and she looks down at her lap, trying to hide the fact that she's blushing. He calls her out on it, flirting outrageously, pushing the boundaries because it feels so good. At one point she punches his upper arm, not even hard enough to hurt, and turns to order another glass of wine. He watches her side profile, the way she tries to rein in the smile which keeps pulling at her lips, and he's charmed. He is well and truly under her spell.
And he suspects she might be under his, too.
When she finally suggests they go get something to eat, he's on his feet before she's finished her sentence. Outside the snow is still falling but it's lighter now, speckling the dark sky, dancing on the wind. London is all dressed up for the holiday, its historic buildings adorned with multi-colored lights, and the noise and bustle is even greater than usual, every bar and restaurant full, Christmas music filling the air each time a door is swung open.
They go for pizza in the end and Fitz is so pleased with her choice, because he's starving.
"I've eaten nothing but crisps since breakfast," he confesses as they're seated in a bustling Italian restaurant, squeezed in right at the back. To describe it as 'cozy' would be an understatement but he's glad, actually, because it's unintentionally yet undeniably romantic: small table, dim lighting, candle burning low in a jar between them.
"You've been here too long if you're calling them 'crisps'," Olivia teases, taking off her jacket for the first time, revealing more of her gorgeous body. Her bare arms are slender and toned, and she's wearing a delicate gold bracelet he hadn't noticed before. He wants to take hold of her hand, to press his lips to the impossibly smooth skin on the inside of her wrist where her pulse beats.
"I learned the hard way," he manages to say, to keep his mind in the present and not wandering off into fantasy - despite how tempting that is. "You can only order 'chips' so many times in an English pub and end up with a plate of fries before you have to concede."
"Never!"
Her grin is infectious; they stare each other out for a few seconds before they start to laugh, glancing down at their menus to try and disguise just how into this they both are. There's something about modern culture, about societal norms, which dictates that impromptu dates like this should be played cool. Don't look too keen, too soon; don't come on too strong, don't give too much away. But what if it's not cool - what if it's already smoking hot? Why should they have to pretend?
When he meets Olivia's gaze again, he would put money on the fact that she's thinking exactly the same thing. They're so in tune with each other already, it's almost unbelievable.
"If you had to pick a pizza for me," she says slowly, as if she's daring herself to be so bold, "Which would it be?"
It's one of the easiest questions he's ever faced. "The Spicy Italian. Hot salami, chilies, green pepper. I think you'd ask for the spicy tomato base too."
Her eyes widen and he knows he's right.
"What about me?" he asks, wondering what she'll say. He never would have thought that pizza toppings could provide so much insight into a person, and he's dying to know what Olivia's impression of him is so far.
"Hmm." She peruses the menu and he's mesmerized by how she looks in the candlelight: absolutely flawless. "I would say… pepperoni."
His heart misses a beat. She's correct, of course. That's his absolute favorite. "Why?"
"Because it's classic, like you. I think you know exactly what you like."
He's drowning in her eyes, so open, so fearless. He wants to say a hundred different things to her, things like How did you know? and You're so beautiful and Will you come into my life and never leave please?, but he can't. He doesn't need to. He's sure she can read it all on his face.
They're interrupted by a waitress, who's wearing a Santa hat and full of holiday spirit. Fitz takes the liberty of ordering their pizzas before asking Olivia what she'd like to drink.
"A glass of Chianti please."
"And I'll just have a still water, thanks."
She leaves.
Olivia is frowning at him. "What?" he asks, unable to stop himself from smiling. She's just so adorable.
"It's Christmas eve. Why are you drinking water?"
"I think I've already had enough today," he says, and what he really means is: I want to be sober enough to give you my best; to take you home with me later, if that's even a possibility.
She tuts at him. "You're no fun. I might have to leave, find myself someone else to celebrate with."
"I thought you hated Christmas?"
"I do. Hence the drinking."
He laughs softly, relaxing into his chair. "Fine. I'll drink again later."
"Shots?"
"No. No way. That never ends well."
"Please?" She leans forward, resting her elbows on the table, covering his hands with both of hers. He wonders whether she realizes how significant this moment is: their first touch, skin to skin. Because he does - and it makes him hard.
"I want to get drunk and go dancing. Will you be my Christmas date, Fitz?"
"That depends." His voice has dropped a whole octave. "Will there be mistletoe?"
The words are out of his mouth before he has chance to really assess their implications - but her sexy smile confirms she is just as excited about the prospect as he is.
"I expect we could find some, if we wanted to..."
He turns his hands over and links their fingers together. "You said you don't recommend rebounding. Is that what I'm doing right now?"
"Possibly."
"And does that bother you?"
She contemplates him for a long moment before answering. "It doesn't. Maybe because I'm already a little drunk; maybe because you're so handsome I can't think straight. I vote we just go with it. Okay?"
He lets his knee brush hers beneath the table, wishing they were alone right now and he could give in to his overwhelming desire to take her in his arms and ravish her. "That is more than okay by me."
After the most intense, flirtatious dinner of his life, they're walking arm-in-arm along the cold streets again, looking for somewhere to continue their evening. They pass frantic, late-night shoppers; businessmen in suits, heads bowed to escape the wind, hurrying home to their families; groups of young people drunkenly singing seasonal songs. Fitz wants nothing more than to kiss the stunning girl by his side - to press her curvy little body into a nearby wall and explore her with his mouth, his ravenous hands - but he holds back. The longer they wait, the better it will be, he knows.
She eventually decides on a bar, a stylish place with a dancefloor on the mezzanine above, and he buys them two shots of Sambuca each. She stands close and clinks her glass against his with the most alluring look on her face. "Cheers. Happy Christmas."
"Happy Christmas."
And it is - more so than he could have possibly imagined.
He's definitely feeling drunk again by the time they hit the dancefloor: drunk on alcohol, and this intoxicating woman. She draws him close, sliding her palms over his chest and shoulders, swaying her hips against his so sensually he can't help but imagine her naked, head tipped back with mind-blowing pleasure as she rides him. It's more than enough for his erection to reappear and when she realizes, she bites her lip in the most erotic way and deliberately grinds against him, making him groan against her ear.
They last maybe half an hour. He touches her as much as he dares: her thighs, her ass; even her breasts, just briefly and hidden by his body. She shudders when he does, her fingers tightening around his waist, her eyes falling closed. It's several moments before she finally looks at him again and when she does, that's the end.
"You ready to go?"
She's already nodding, letting him drag her away. She excuses herself to use the bathroom on their way out and he waits in the corridor for her, his muscles tense, blood pumping frantically around his body. He's had one-night stands before, years ago, but he's never been this aroused; never felt he might go crazy if he doesn't get to taste her tonight, to bury himself inside of her. And he doesn't just want her for one night: he wants to get to know her, to be her best friend, to make her part of his life. Their connection, their chemistry, is unlike anything he's ever known and he wants her now, and forever.
When she reappears, the coy smile she gives him is the final spark he needs. He takes her hand, pulls her against him and kisses her.
They've come close all evening, teasing one another, always withdrawing at the last minute, but nothing could have prepared him for this: this heaven. This surrender. This feeling that he's melting into her, and she into him, so that their edges become blurred, difficult to discern. She kisses just like he thought she would: fiercely, wholly, letting her passion pour out of her, holding nothing back. And she's stronger than she looks, pushing him into the wall as her sweet mouth devours him and he knows then, with absolute certainty, that he won't ever want to kiss another woman as long as he lives.
They do stop, eventually. They have to, otherwise they'd end up fucking right here. Olivia gazes deep into his eyes, her ribcage rising and falling rapidly against his. His hands are resting on her hips, squeezing tight.
"Take me home," she whispers.
He smiles; lets his lips fall onto hers again, just briefly before he trails them along her jaw to her ear. "I don't know where you live," he whispers back, and her body shakes with laughter before the sound of it leaves her mouth.
"You're so ridiculous," she sighs. She looks so happy it makes his heart swell.
"I know," he agrees, brushing her curls back from her face with his fingertips. "I kissed you right here and there wasn't even any mistletoe."
She glances up at the ceiling, confirming his statement. "Well then," she says, meeting his eyes once more, her chin lifted defiantly - challenging him. "I don't think that counts as a Christmas kiss. We'll have to do it all over again."
He's never been with anyone so bold, so feisty, so playful - and suddenly he needs to get out of here, to have her all to himself. He grips her hand in his. "That can be arranged, gorgeous girl. Come on. Let's go."
They take a taxi to her flat, which is on the first floor of an old Victorian house in Putney. Her roommate left a couple of hours ago to drive to his parents' for the holiday, which is fortunate for two reasons: firstly, Fitz doesn't want to meet this guy she's slept with and secondly, he is planning to make her scream tonight. An empty apartment is a necessity.
As her follows her inside and up the stairs, he can't stop himself staring at the incredible curves of her bottom, her legs. His desire grows further, evidenced by his labored breathing, by the tightening of his pants. At the top he stands behind her while she searches for her keys, letting her feel how much he wants her. He presses his palms into her abdomen, marveling at how tiny she is; grazes her hipbone with his little finger, inching closer and closer to her center but never getting there, no matter how many times she whimpers.
Finally she manages to open the door, switching on a light as they enter. Fitz tries to turn her around but she resists, stepping out of his embrace.
"Wait there," she says, leaving him in the hallway without a backward glance. She disappears into a room on the left and he takes the opportunity to remove his coat and shoes. There's a rack on the floor and it's piled high with pairs of heels, leather boots, pink sneakers. He's just thinking about how small her feet are, how cute, when she reappears.
In her hand is a piece of paper on which she's written one word, in thick black letters: mistletoe.
"I don't have the real thing," she says softly, pausing just in front of him, holding the paper above her head. "Do you think this will do?"
He never knew a girl could be so sweet, so utterly adorable and yet so devastatingly sexy at the same time - but Olivia is all those things, and more. In this moment, she is everything.
With a groan deep in his throat, he covers the space between them and kisses her underneath the mistletoe. In his eagerness, his arms encircle her waist so forcefully he knocks her back a step. She almost loses her balance but he steadies her; he's got her. She's his.
They don't stop kissing, this time. Not now that they're finally alone together; not when they can at last give in to the blazing sexual tension which has been building between them all evening. She slowly leads him to her room, their bodies entwined, their kisses wild and insatiable. Fitz feels like he's drowning in her, like he can't breathe. She's just too much. He just wants her too much.
They fall onto her bed, the only light sneaking in from the hall around the edges of the door. She doesn't seem interested in turning on a lamp and he's certainly not interested in letting her go long enough to do so. Besides, there's something seriously arousing about fumbling around in the dark: it heightens all other senses; allows hands to roam freely, to explore wherever they like. Olivia's are all over him: beneath his sweater and t-shirt, discovering the muscles of his chest and abs; unfastening his belt, slipping inside his jeans, rubbing his rock-hard cock through his boxers. He only lets her for a minute though, because otherwise he'll explode.
Rolling her beneath him, he finds her wrists and lifts them both above her head. Her legs are open, bent at the hips and knees, and he thrusts himself against her core, over and over, watching the pleasure on her beautiful face in the dim light, listening to her moans become louder, feeling her whole body rising rhythmically, matching his tempo. He uses one hand to push up her top, to free her left breast from its bra cup before ducking his head, closing his mouth around her pert little nipple.
And she comes.
He only knows because she tells him so, as it's happening: "Fitz, I'm… fuck, I'm coming!"
He's never made anyone orgasm so quickly before. And it's good for his ego of course, but more than that, it's good for his soul. He didn't imagine their insane connection after all. The way he feels about her already - it's real. This thing between them is real.
"Baby," he murmurs, the endearment coming so naturally he doesn't even think twice about it. "God, I want you. I've never wanted anyone so much."
She looks into his eyes; presses her lips to his, still gazing at him. Her hands escape his grip to travel down his body and he tenses up, frozen with anticipation. He feels her pushing down his jeans, his boxers; lifts his hips so she can remove her own jeans and underwear. Then she pulls off his top too, and hers, until they're both naked and she's drawing him in close with her heels and all the skin-to-skin contact is making him lightheaded. When his tip finally meets her entrance and he discovers just how dripping wet she is, he actually cries out, shaking from head to toe.
"I'm on the pill," she says quietly, her voice strained, and he can tell she's struggling to keep still, to lie there with him just beyond reach. "I had a check-up last week and I'm clean. But I have condoms, if you want…"
Fitz is a hundred percent sure his ex-girlfriend never cheated on him - they're weren't right for each other, but he always trusted her - and he's not been with anyone else since his last test three years ago.
"I'm good," he replies, touching the tip of her nose with his, letting a smile start to curve his lips. This is the last quiet moment they'll have before he fucks her into oblivion and he tries to let it last - but Olivia isn't so patient.
"So what are you waiting for?" she asks innocently, and it breaks him.
He presses his cock into her body, stretching her, filling her all the way to the hilt. The way her eyes close, how her back arches, the gasp that leaves her lips - he'll never forget this moment. And he'll never forget how she feels either, as he begins to move faster and she relaxes even more, taking him in further with each thrust, sending shockwaves of pleasure rippling through him. He licks and sucks on her nipples, loving how sensitive they are, how her fingernails dig into his back and she moans almost continuously. It's not long before she pulls on his hair, lifting his face to hers so she can kiss him, and he starts to pick up the pace, slamming into her, using his hand to tilt her pelvis so he can go even deeper, can feel her G spot, can sense her climax building along with his…
"Fuck," she whimpers, holding him close, all her muscles rigid. "Baby, I'm gonna-"
"I know," he grunts. "Me too."
He covers her mouth again, hyperaware of the fact she called him 'baby' and her nipples brushing his chest and how fucking amazing it feels to be enveloped by her soft insides, over and over and-
She screams this time, when she falls apart. Her entire body tries to rise off the bed, into him, but he's not really sure what she does next because his orgasm doesn't just hit him - it destroys him. He's vaguely aware of their noises colliding in the dark; of her heart thundering against his ribs, and his against hers. Everything else is just pure, unadulterated ecstasy.
Eventually, as he starts to return to earth, he kisses her; savoring her, savoring everything about this. He thought he'd had good sex before, but his past encounters all pale into comparison with what has just occurred. Olivia Pope has scarred him for life - in the best possible way.
"Fuck me," she breathes, gazing up at him with what he can only describe as wonder. Awe. Disbelief.
"I just did," he grins, supporting himself on one arm, tracing her jawline with his finger. "That was…"
She nods, understanding perfectly his lack of words. "I know. It was."
When she smiles, he swears he falls a little bit in love with her. "Merry Christmas Fitz," she murmurs, pressing a tender kiss to his lips.
"Merry Christmas, Livvie."
They shower together and he's hard the entire time, devouring her bare body with his eyes, running his soapy hands greedily over her skin. She really is the sexiest woman in the world, and he tells her as he slips his fingers inside her, as he kneels down and puts his mouth on her, holding her against the glass, lifting her leg over his shoulder and burying his tongue inside her until she's coming again, all over his face.
They dry each other off with fluffy towels; she takes particular care with his cock, until he can't take it a moment longer and suddenly they're fucking up against the wall, desperately. It's a pattern which continues for the next two hours: shower to clean up; turn each other on again; end up back in bed, or on the bathroom floor, or on the sofa with the Christmas tree lights twinkling in the corner of the room.
It's three AM by the time they finally curl up beneath the covers, thoroughly exhausted. Fitz hasn't had this kind of work out in so long, he's aching in places he forgot he had muscles.
Spooned up behind this sensational girl, his face buried in her sweet-smelling neck, their fingers intertwined, he makes a silent Christmas wish: that he will get the chance to date her. That maybe, next year, he will be lucky enough to share the holiday again with her, as her boyfriend.
"I don't think this is rebounding," he says quietly, kissing her soft skin.
"I don't think so either," she whispers in reply. There's a pause; then she turns over, sliding her arms around him, bringing her lips close to his. "What's the craziest thing you've ever done, Fitz?"
"I… don't know."
"Have you ever run away with a stranger on Christmas Day?"
He draws her even nearer, thinking how well they fit together, like two pieces of the same puzzle. "No. I haven't."
She glides her fingers through his hair. "Will you run away with me?"
Yes.
"Where do you want to go?"
"Wherever the first flight is going to."
"Now?"
She giggles. "No. In the morning. I know you said you had dinner at your friend's place, but I just thought, maybe, because it's Christmas-"
He cuts her off with a bruising kiss. "I would go anywhere with you, Olivia. Any day."
"So, that's a yes?"
He's glad it's dark and she can't see just how ridiculously big his smile is. "Oh, baby. It is most definitely a yes."
Fin.