Author's Note: Again, ask and ye shall happily receive! I'm either going to return to an established universe for the next D.D. (most likely the Olitz GoT-verse) or come up with something brand new. I'm not sure yet. I am sure that I'll keep Olitzing on through the season, into the hiatus, and beyond. Enjoy!

(CMW2/Trumpetnista: Draftbook Drabble #24- (Follow up to #11, 15, and 19- Fitz, Olivia, nonB613!Russell, Cyrus, Mellie, OOC but nothing too extreme, AU, law enforcement sting aftermath AKA Stripper Sting, established Olitz, mentioned past Olivia/Edison, one sided Mellitz Zombie, and one sided Olivia/Russell, NSFW))

Words from the Gladiator in a Hoodie: There are only a few episodes left in Season 4 and like Season 3, I'll be glad when it's over. Don't get me wrong, the show hasn't been nearly as fucked up as it was this time last year (in my opinion) but yeah. I need an extended break from the Rhimesian fuckery that I insist on enduring. It's like what I said to my boss earlier: until Liv and Fitz are dead and I see the bodies (because y'all know how The Creator likes to play games), I'm gonna stick around. There's no use fronting otherwise. However, the Hiatus is almost here and I want it. Even if by some bizarre miracle, Ballard really ends up dead/maimed/gone in the Finale (I've pretty much given up on any lasting positive Olitz progress or a real -Gate for them this season. It better happen more than once in Season 5, since the show's already been renewed!), I'll still be happy for the hiatus. Let's keep our fingers crossed for a happy start to it instead of the usual sad/WTactualF one!

Anyway, this fic is not only gonna be sultry (because we really do need it), it's also gonna get right to the heart of a raised issue that has been pissing me the fuck off since 4B started and even before. Some folks out there have been calling Olivia promiscuous and a goddamned thot (I hate that fucking term!) and while I vehemently disagree with some of the decisions she's made in her personal life (*cough* continuing to fuck Ballard after she learned his true identity *cough-hacks up a lung full of hatred*, *cough* Russell/Franklin in general *cough*), I'm not going to do that to her. I'm not going to insult her agency or slut shame her. I'll leave that in The Creator's and some fandom fuckheads' (you know who you are…) very capable hands.

I hope you guys enjoy the latest and more on the WIPs will be up soon. Mad Love, Jam, and Power Drills, ~*Trump*~

Disclaimer: "Honestly, it's not mine!"

Excerpt from Draftbook Drabble #19…

"…You do realize that using federal databases to look into me without probable cause is a direct violation of FBI policy and could result in you losing your badge? I mean, I guess you could say that you were doing it out of the blanket excuse of 'national security' but when it comes to me, the only security danger I can think of is the POTUS keeling over in the Oval while choking the chicken to my Naughty Domestic Goddess portfolio…"

"He deserves better than some pole dancing, barely legal, foul mouthed little slut! He's a Grant man and…"

"If you know the truth about Grant men, then you know that I'm perfect for him. They absolutely adore an intelligent, foul mouthed, big bootyed broad that can work a pole and I'm not a slut. I've only been in one relationship other than Fitz and I don't have sex unless I'm in a relationship with a guy. And even if I was a slut, who gives a fuck? It's my body and I can do whoever and whatever I damned well please with it.Get over it and yourself…"

"Livvie…"

"If she had gotten too crazy, I would've read you in. She was just a minor annoyance and she didn't do anything to hurt me. Of course, she called me a couple of the usual nasty names but that's nothing I haven't heard while I'm out and about, especially when I'm on campus. Usually they come from "enlightened" black men who see my work as my singlehandedly setting black people back 50 years but occasionally, there will be an under the covers racist. Those come in all shapes and sizes."

"Under the covers racist?"

"They hate black people, black women specifically but if they had the chance, they'd fuck one just to say that they did it and they're not racist because they did it. Not to mention, they all have that one black friend that doesn't get offended about every little thing they say and do. We just all need to stop playing the race card blame game and evolve into a post racial utopia. Then, we shall have peace and harmony in America and on earth."

"That's…"

"…bullshit but it is what it is. Fitz, as long as there's racial and cultural diversity, there's going to be ignorance and outright stupidity on some people's parts. The best things to do is to not let it get you down and to shut it down whenever possible…"

"…what do you need, Cy?"

"I heard that Ms. Pope was in the building and I need to talk to her."

"Talk to me about what?"

"A job offer."

Two Months Later…

"M-may I join you, Olivia?"

"Sure. Russell, right?"

"Yeah. It's actually Franklin but I go by Russell. It's my middle name and I like it better. Franklin sounds like an old man's name, you know?"

"Not really. It's more dignified than old-timey. My lover's name is Fitzgerald, of all things. I know it's a family name but really, they should've just named him Egbert or 'Kick my Ass' and been done with it. He's lucky that he's the spawn of the Nephilim and brilliant or I'm sure that he wouldn't have made it to high school with all of his original equipment."

"He's a lucky man to have you. I mean, not have you. You're a woman, not an object. What I meant was…I just…look, can we start over before I drown in a simmering stew of my own awkwardness?"

"Trust me, compared to some people I've met at shoots and while on stage, you're doing just fine. What brings you here at this hour?"

"Senioritis…plus, I wasn't in the mood to sit through the review slides for bio. I already know what I need to know for the final exam and even if I bomb it, I'll still pass with a B. What about you?"

"I'm starting my new gig tomorrow and I wanted to spend the day getting ready for it."

"I heard about that. You've got a job with the FBI."

"Yeah. I'm not an agent. I'm a civilian consultant and trainer for their Vice division. Basically, I'm teaching bureaucrats how to think like the scumbags they're chasing after and training mainly women to dance and talk well enough to blend into the Clubs. The pay's enough so I don't have do anymore modeling or dancing unless I want to, they've got kickass dental, and I got it in writing that the Big Giant Heads won't shit on Fitz professionally just because he happens to be getting his ashes hauled by the Legendary Orchid the Naughty Schoolgirl AKA the Sultry Pinup Known as Tiger Lilly."

"They'd do that to him?"

"In half a heartbeat. For all the talk of America being the Land of the Free and progressive, once a woman, especially a Woman of Color takes control of her sexuality and has no shame about it, people get uncomfortable and revert back to the Puritanical, scarlet letter giving days of old. They know that I don't give a fuck about what they think of me but Fitz still does. He's protective of me and he'd give up any chance for the leadership positions he deserves by punching some jowl mouthed wheezing old fart in the throat for disrespecting me. I can't stop him from doing it but I can give him a safety net."

"You really love him, don't you?"

"Very much so…oh…oh, shit…Russell, I'm sorry…"

"No, don't be. Don't ever apologize for being in love and happy. Everyone deserves that and I figured out and accepted that you were out of my league by the end of first year of Undergrad. I'm just glad that I was able to muster up the balls to actually talk to you before graduation."

24 year old Olivia Pope smiled gently at the young man across from her before taking her leave. It was a beautiful day and it would be good for sitting by the Reflecting Pool. Russell…in another life, in another time, Olivia was sure that she would've been interested in him. Russell was known to be intelligent, sweet, and while he was slightly lacking in his size downstairs (just because she didn't have any close friends on campus or when she briefly lived in a dorm didn't mean she was out of the Loop…), he more than made up for it in enthusiasm and a willingness to use what he had to make sure his partner was satisfied. If her financial aid had stayed steady, if she hadn't moved off campus, if she hadn't earned her naughty girl Reputation, if she had never met Fitzgerald Grant III…well, Russell was a nice "could've been" but Olivia was very happy with her reality.

Not only had taking the job as a Stripper/Lingerie model put her in Fitz's orbit and in fine financial straits (without any Papa Pope puppet strings), it had shot any chance of her doing anything political after college right to hell, which is exactly what she had wanted. Officially, her father worked for the Smithsonian but anyone who was really legit in the Political Arena knew that Eli Pope (AKA Rowan) was the Gatekeeper. If he liked you, you were Golden and your opponents would be put out of commission one way or the other. If he didn't like you, you were fucked. Whether it was a physical bad fucking or the fucking that ruined reputations through at least 2 reincarnations depended on just how much the man didn't like you. All of her life, Olivia had been groomed by him to be a part of the Political Arena, part of the Machine, and while she enjoyed the Game (after all, she was majoring in Poli-Sci), she did not want to play it.

There had been many a stalemated argument between her and Eli on the matter. Neither was willing to budge on their positions so it was better to agree to disagree. The agreeing to disagree could get loud and quite ugly before going cold and sullen but still…they agreed to disagree.

Anything that had her being the opposite of her father, her mother endorsed fully, even if it was a little dicey. It couldn't be outright illegal but as long as she graduated on time and ended up with some sort of steady career, Maya Lewis would stay in her lane when it came to Olivia's life decisions.

Besides, she was much too busy with her besotted common law husband/willing love slave Dominic Bell to concern herself with such trivial matters for more than a few minutes. She'd let her daughter and her ex husband duke it out until the cows came home. The duking was their way of bonding, anyway.

Still, when her new job became common knowledge, both of her parents had nearly blown out her eardrums with their displeasure. Of course, how they found out could've been a factor. Her first 'Naughty Girl' soldiers only chair dance routine had gone viral, thanks to the glorious tipping awestruck pack of Marines that had come into The Coliseum and the video had spread like a brushfire. Crazy Maya Lewis and The Great Eli/Rowan Pope's daughter was a skilled stripper, a dime a dance go-go girl, a dirty little whore…at least in their judging eyes she was the last one by default.

It was karmic irony at its finest: the Gatekeeper, the Judge, Jury, and Executioner of everyone else's only precious daughter was openly getting down and dirty for her pocket money. The man who spent so much monologuing about how a man's place was to take care of their families had a daughter didn't trust him to do it properly. And of all the jobs Olivia could've gotten with her brilliant mind, she chose to strip and obviously enjoyed it! Look at how well she danced! Looked at how she smiled at her eager captives! She wasn't just a go-go dancer! She was a star!

She was a legen…wait for it…dary star!

Olivia was the hottest gossip at the table from the Hill to the churches in the predominantly black neighborhoods less than a mile away from 1600 Penn. Many a cell phone had been confiscated from many a horny adolescent marveling at her performance, not to mention some of the big shots in the political area. It was rumored that the POTUS himself had seen the footage and loved it…

It was unseemly!

It was feminism at its finest!

It was scandalous!

It was awesome!

It was fucking hilarious!

It was disgusting!

Opinions varied across the board, through all the tax brackets, through all races…

Edison Davis had certainly championed the negative opinions. He had come to her apartment in a livid, jealous rage halfway through her trial period and forbade her from ever going back to the Club. What kind of self respecting woman did such things? Didn't she care about how it made her look? Didn't she care how it made him look? He was trying to be someone in D.C., trying to be the first black POTUS down the line and he couldn't very well have his woman prancing around in 8 inch heels and sparkle pasties to pay her bills.

She had corrected him on three things as she calmly counted her night's haul of 850 dollars.

Three, on the rare times she wore them, her pasties didn't sparkle, they were neon pink and were shaped like daisies, covering her nipples perfectly.

Two, her heels maxed out at 6 inches and she didn't prance, she strutted. There was a difference.

One, she wasn't his woman, anymore. She wasn't his woman, anymore and she'd never be his woman again so how any of her life choices made him look was of no consequence to her.

Also, she may look questionable but not only had she made enough cash to cover her looming tuition payment by the end of her first week, she was already halfway to the next month's plus her living expenses. She had a naughty Reputation now but she also had security.

Losing Edison and being side-eyed from irrelevant people was a small price to pay for that security.

She would keep on dancing and she would do whatever the hell else that she wanted to do.

It was her life to live and she was quite content with it.

Anyone who had a problem with it would just have to swallow it whole and take it dry.

And to accent that last statement, not only did she take the full time position at The Coliseum, she branched out into her modeling. At first, it was amateur work, just pictures and selfies taken in her apartment with professional grade cameras (her high school graduation gifts from Dominic Bell) in her own lingerie but when she made a blog about it, she had landed an interview with Satin Delite, the flagship company that housed the Bethany Whisper Line. No one remembered the original name of the lingerie Line but the blonde bombshell (a sweet but more than a little spastic medical student named Isobel "Izzie" Stevens) had been so successful for the Line, her modeling name had become the product's name. Olivia truly hoped that the woman had gotten some extra cash for it. Every cent counted, especially when it came to paying for med school.

One month after acing the interview, Olivia had made her debut just in time for Spring. The shoot had been in a private greenhouse about 30 minutes outside of D.C. and her lingerie had been lace, sheer, and shades of vivid green. There had also been butterflies and hummingbirds. The main picture, the best picture from that shoot involved her in her knees an outdoor claw foot tub, her hands braced on the sides. Her negligee had been mint green, her lace tanga had been snow white, and the warm water had been filled with tiger lily blooms and petals. The fabrics had stuck to her like glue, outlining all of her curves, planes, and shadows. Her wet hair had curled and become wild from the humidity and the expression on her face had been one that the photographer had called "sensual, classical bliss". She had used her real name for that shoot but social media and her Line had dubbed her 'Queen Tiger Lily'. Olivia had dropped the Queen and kept the moniker, leading to more shoots, a standing guest slot at La Perla and where she was now: a teacher. Of all the careers she had contemplated going into, teaching had never come up in the cards, especially in her "field of expertise"…and for the Feds, of all people! Here she was, a stripping, frilly underthings modeling young black woman about to step in the J. Edgar Hoover building itself not as a suspect or witness but as a teacher!

Life sure could be hilarious sometimes.

Tomorrow night would certainly be interesting…

/

"She only got the job because she's screwing Grant. I mean, what can she really teach us that the Academy didn't?"

"Her expertise and bravery helped collapse one of the biggest Pill Factories in the Tri-State area and have you seen her instructional videos? Her performances are something but her tutorials, the workouts…it takes real talent, Agent Vaughn. Plus, everyone knows that you've been trying and failing to get into SSA Grant's pants for years. If you can't pull yourself together enough to be professional, then you need to get out of here and make room for someone who can. Clear?"

"Crystal clear, Director Beene. I'm sorry."

"Yeah, you really are. They're all yours for 2 hours, Ms. Pope. Let me know if you have problems."

"It'll be okay. We're all mature adults here…mostly."

Although others in the main gym were less than charitable about hiding their amusement at the cheerfully thrown shade, Fitz confined himself to a small smirk. A dozen female agents, unfortunately including Mellie, stood next to the installed brass poles, watching as Olivia plugged in her tablet. She would be instructing them from a raised, reinforced platform and a headset ala a spinning teacher was on her head, the small mic up and away from her mouth. Her hair was in a messy updo and she had on a short sleeved black curve hugging cotton bodysuit. White lace arm warmers matched the large ribbon bows she had used for her ponytails and her nails were the same matte crimson as her lips. Her strong thighs were bare and her look was finished by a pair of over the knee 4 inch heeled suede boots screaming 'fuck me hard'. The look she shot him after her greeting hug earlier screamed 'fuck me hard, Fitz' and he had every intention of hearing her scream that command by the end of the night at least twice…

"All right… can everybody hear me? Is this thing on?"

Nods from her students and cheers from the watching Agents and employees.

A giggle and then, "Wonderful. As my nicely laminated new badge reads, I'm Olivia Pope and I'm here to teach you ladies how to not only work the pole but how to not break your neck, die, or blow your cover whilst doing it. There are only 3 rules here: Respect each other, respect me, and have fun. Let's get started."

/

One Hour and 50 Minutes Later…

Up until now, Olivia never really enjoyed her exotic dancing.

Okay, that wasn't entirely true. The financial independence, the figurative 'Up Yours' to Eli, and the sight of mostly intelligent men reduced to glaze eyed lust zombies because of her moves…it had been nice. The fact that it had landed her one of the best men in town certainly didn't hurt matters but still, Orchid had been created out of pure necessity, not out of a sense of joy for a craft or for physical fitness.

Right now, though? Watching as the baby faced tech agent named Quinn Perkins grinned with triumph as she spun slowly but steadily on her pole, watching as the ballsy redhead ballistics specialist named Abby Whelan smiled as she practiced her Strut, hell…even watching as Mellie steadily lost her snooty edge and giggled with a couple of other agents as they stood outside the locker room…it felt right. It felt good. She wasn't just using her skills and body to prove a point or to put ramen on the table, anymore. The women in her class right now weren't trophy housewives or desperate mistresses. They were FBI agents. They worked to protect the public and the Republic from those who seeked to damage or destroy. Olivia knew that it was highly unlikely that knowing how to move and speak in a Club would be the lynch pin to a major case (the Sting she had joined with Fitz had been an exception, not the rule) but still…she felt like she was doing something proactive, like she was a part of something bigger, something great…

Seeing that it was 7:55, Olivia pressed stop on her playlist and lowered her mic again.

"Class dismissed, ladies. Fair warning, you're definitely going to be feeling pain in the morning. Arms, legs, core…head, shoulders, knees, and motherfucking toes. Hell, even your teeth are gonna hurt. It's normal and it'll lessen as you keep practicing. Use cold water to start with and then go warm so your muscles don't cramp up completely. If you don't have any already, get yourselves some Epsom salts, your favorite painkiller, chocolate, and your favorite booze. I also recommend you investing heavily in Dr. Scholl's for Her insoles. Speaking from someone who lives barefoot or in sky high heels, they're an absolute Godsend. Next session's in 2 days. Good job, everyone!"

Once it became clear that it was an actual lesson and not a glorified mass strip tease, much of the watching crowd of mainly male agents had quickly dispersed but Fitz stayed, sitting in a folding chair by the platform. He had helped her descend and ascend to it during the lesson, his whole demeanor reverting to "Patrick's" AKA "The Gentleman". Looking back on it, Olivia had been drawn to him from the moment he stepped into The Coliseum for his Op. He moved with a fluid, matter of fact confidence, his head held high and he would look you in dead in the eye when you spoke to him. Since she had been the only girl on the floor at the time, she had approached him to figure out what he wanted, since he definitely wasn't a customer, and for the first time, his cerulean slate gaze seared her. There was desire in the gaze (after all, she was only in her lingerie) but when he spoke to her, he spoke to her like she was an equal with just a hint of the coddling that people tried to give her before they realized that she was of drinking age. Charlie had come out of his office to interview him cheerfully (a forced and frightened cheerfulness, as she now knew it to be) and when he referenced her as his 'best bitch', the look that Fitz had given him as he said that he didn't see any bitches around made Charlie pale with terror and Olivia smile behind her glass of mineral water.

She had started to fall for him right then and there…

He came up the platform stairs and Olivia peeked at him through her lashes as she packed up her gear, suppressing the urge to fan herself or to pounce on him right then and there. He was in the same navy suit pants and spit shone dress shoes that he had put on that morning but his jacket was gone. His crisp white dress shirt was unbuttoned to reveal the delicious hollow of his throat and a shadow of chest hair. His black tie was undone and what really slayed her were his black suspenders. With the suspenders, rumpled hair (with an errant Superman curl falling over his brow), and five o shadow on his cheeks, he looked just like an old school G-Man.

She had always loved watching those films and now, she had a real one and he wasn't older than dirt or dead like the gentlemen on TCM. He was real and modern and sophisticated and sweet and…her man was just so… fine. He was too fine for her own good, sometimes.

"I found a good pasta primavera recipe online a couple of days ago. Is that okay for dinner?"

"I'm not hungry for pasta primavera, Olivia."

"Then, what are you hungry for? We can pick it up on the way home."

"No, we can't."

"What do you mean we can't? What do you want to eat?"

"I want your pussy with you naked except your boots for dinner…and breakfast, too."

Olivia looked at him wide eyed at his filthy honesty and his answering face was utterly serene.

Okay, then.

/

The Next Morning…

"…you do realize that we're gonna have to get married eventually, don't you? I'm serious. I mean, can you really imagine yourself being able to be this comfortable and happy with someone else? I can't…"

Fitz pressed another open mouthed kiss to her sternum, licking up the remaining stickiness from the honey he had drizzled on her the night before after Round 4…or had it been 5? Olivia was currently resting bare skinned on the kitchen floor, looking adorably dazed and she still had those 'fuck me, Fitz' boots on. He was completely naked, also sticky from honey with scratches on his back, and he was pretty sure that there was a bite mark on the upper part of his left buttock. He'd have to check. It could either be a bite mark from their tickle fight turned playful wrestling match in their bed or it could just be a bruise from the sink pedestal in the master bath she had chased him into. She had pushed him against it and nearly sucked his life force out along with his climax through his cock. He was groggy. He was sore. He was hungry for food, now (he had been earlier but hunger for his Livvie outweighed it) and he couldn't really feel his legs.

Most importantly, he was happy. No, he was blissful.

Olivia Pope was his bliss.

"…it doesn't have to be soon. I still have to graduate and I'm sure that you've got a couple of personal professional goals that you want to accomplish whilst helping to defend the Republic but…if I'm going to be anyone's wife, I'd like to be yours. I'd like you to be my husband. Is that okay with you?"

"More than okay."

"Really?"

"Mm-hm."

"Awesome…"

Slowly, Fitz sat up on his knees and took her boots off one at a time, watching fondly as she yawned widely. Her hair hung in her face and he brushed it away gently, matching her smile, a smile that was brighter than the ascending sun filtering through the blinds.

He looked forward to seeing that smile for the rest of his life.