A/N: You know how sometimes you plan to write a 1 - 3k word one-shot, but you end up writing 15k words instead? Yeah, that's what happened with this fic. My beta pointed out to me that it could be split up kind of perfectly into 3 chapters, and since I wrote this for her anyway, I'm going with that. Let me also just preface by saying I never had any intention whatsoever of writing a Rolivia bondage fic. I think it's a TERRIBLE IDEA for these two. But I should know by now to never say never, especially when I have such convincing friends & readers. I almost decided to make this story an AU because I didn't like the direction it was headed in, but I'm keeping it Devilishverse. I haven't figured out where it falls in the timeline... I was going to set it around the same time, or shortly after, the long fic/3rd Devilish installment I'm working on, but now that this one's finished, I think it can safely be wedged somewhere between "Hunger" and the 3rd fic. TRIGGER WARNING (mostly for upcoming chapters)! Dub-con, referenced rape, PTSD TRIGGER WARNING! Did I mention this was supposed to be a PWP but turned into an angst-ridden bog of feels and porn and OMG-what-have-I-done? Because it did. There's probably more I wanted to say, but I'll save it for the next a/n. I basically skipped Christmas to write this, y'all, please read & review.

To Amy

If the Heavens ever did speak
She is the last true mouthpiece
Every Sunday's getting more bleak
A fresh poison each week

- "Take Me to Church," Hozier

Chapter 1: The Giggle at a Funeral

. . .

The safeword was "church."

It started mainly as a joke, after they found out about Amanda's thing for church lady pantyhose. And that had only been revealed because of the booze. So, to be accurate, Olivia found herself dressed up like a librarian in the bathroom of an expensive hotel suite because of the tequila shots, a notorious facilitator of bad ideas.

She hadn't done that many. Public intoxication was unbecoming of an NYPD captain, and her companions were drinking enough for three or four high-ranking officers. Amanda and Daphne tossed back the shot glasses like they were filled with water, instead of Jose Cuervo. Turned out, Daphne could handle her hard liquor better than she'd handled the marijuana they all smoked last Valentine's Day. Amanda was even more proficient, her determination to "drink Daphne under the table" a thing to behold. For someone so small, she could drink like a fish and still remain fairly coherent. If Olivia had consumed half that much, she would have ended up on her ass.

And she almost had, anyway: from laughter. Daphne was the one who started it, of course. Anytime the conversation turned remotely—or in most cases, overtly—sexual among the trio of friends, the tiny court clerk was typically to blame. This time she asked about the strangest fetishes they had encountered on the job. Nothing gory or inhumane, she specified.

"Just weird af." Her eyes were alight as she leaned in, though their cerulean blue shade was never dull. She made greedy gestures with her dainty, manicured hands, indicating readiness for whatever perversions they could throw at her.

When Olivia and Amanda exchanged a look and agreed in unison that it was the guy who liked to amputate women's legs, Daphne had gone very quiet, very somber, and gazed forlornly at her cane. Then, after letting them stammer apologies for a full thirty seconds, she grinned, chirped out a bright, "I'm just fucking with you," and went on sipping her Sex on the Beach.

"And if that's your idea of not gory or inhumane, I don't even want to know what kinks you two got goin' on at home," she'd added, fending off the wadded straw papers and a mangled maraschino cherry—Amanda had stabbed it repeatedly with a plastic cocktail sword, until Olivia placed a calming hand over hers—that sailed in her direction.

But of course Daphne did want to know. Less than a minute later, she had asked, phrasing it with a bit more tact than originally posited: by what nonsexual object or idea did they get the most turned on?

"Since you're both staring at me like you just had ice pick lobotomies and forgot how to sex, I'll go first." Daphne gave a luxurious shake of her dark, wavy mane, assumed a regal pose, and spoke as if she were narrating a dramatic scene. Dun dun dun! "Mine is . . . buns."

"Hot cross or hot dog?" Amanda asked, then scrunched her shoulders and proceeded to snicker hoarsely at her own joke like a villainous cartoon cat.

"I think she means ass cheeks." Olivia had glanced at Daphne for confirmation, but her eyes widened and she set the front legs of her stool down abruptly before the answer came. "Please tell me you don't mean rabbits."

Daphne shook her head and waved her hands for quiet, the synchronized gestures resembling those of the indefatigable it's a small world dancers at Disney. The animatronic dolls, emphatic and irrepressible as they were, had nothing on the little brunette. "Oh my God, none of the above, you sick freaks. I meant hair buns."

"Ohhh," replied the policewomen, again in perfect harmony. Amanda's elbow was planted squarely on the back of Olivia's chair, a hand resting at the nape of her neck. There had been only one possessive squeeze, when the waitress gazed a bit too openly at Olivia's cleavage—they were in a lesbian bar and the blouse was very low-cut—otherwise the touch was pure reassurance. Every so often, the blonde would stroke Olivia's long ponytail, gliding it through her fist, top to bottom, but never tugging.

"Is that why you like ballet so much?" Amanda asked, flourishing the straw she had used for nothing other than chewing. Teeth marks traveled up and down the clear, gnarled plastic, which she swished about as if it were pirouetting midair. "I thought it was the leotards."

Olivia scratched at the side of the Halligan's beer bottle she'd been nursing for half an hour, peeling the label off with her thumbnail. She had always heard that peeling off beer labels was a sign of sexual frustration, but that had to be bullshit.

Thanks to the detective at her side, she was more sexually active now than she had been since her twenties. And not just the vanilla sex she had grown accustomed to with her male suitors. There was a little bit of experimentation in college, when she finally had some distance from her mother's rigid sexual guidelines. But Serena's continual warnings about men who "only want one thing" had firmly taken root by then, and Olivia's days as a rookie cop reinforced that opinion. By the time she made detective, and even before transferring to SVU, she had seen every type of sex game gone wrong and the innumerable, horrific ways men gained their gratification through women. She liked sex. Always had. The control it required her to relinquish, the trust—that was a whole other ball of wax.

It was different with Amanda. Olivia didn't have to hold back with her like she did with men. It turned out there was some truth to what Cici Taylor, the kidnap victim who had been lured into non-consensual threesomes by her plastic surgeon boyfriend, had said about having sex with someone who understood your needs, your fantasies, your body. Someone you trusted with every part of yourself.

They didn't do anything violent—biting, scratching, spanking, yes, but not hard enough to leave marks; choking, however, was completely off the table—and they stuck to the lite versions for most of the kinks they did try. Role playing had become a favorite and surefire way for both of them to get off, allowing a certain freedom they didn't feel as themselves, no matter how comfortable and safe the relationship. It was a chance to explore the parts of themselves that they sometimes weren't aware existed. Olivia hadn't known she liked to be topped until Amanda was the one doing it.

Despite a few setbacks, such as difficulty reaching orgasm or a tendency to later overthink choices made in the heat of passion, her sex life was the healthiest and best it had ever been. Even her fellow officers noticed a difference. Fin had told her she looked "I dunno . . . shiny or something," and Kat kept asking her what skin and hair care products she used.

It's called Sex by Amanda Rollins, Olivia thought, smiling to herself. And it's way out of your price range, Officer Tamin.

Realizing she had completely tuned out her companions, Olivia snapped back to the conversation at hand just in time to hear Daphne explaining that she thought buns were sexy because of the mystery, and she liked watching them come undone. A strip tease for the hair, she called it.

"What do you expect, I grew up watching Star Wars and fantasizing about Princess Leia," Daphne added, hands cupped widely at either side of her head. "You've seen the size of those buns. No one will ever compare."

When Amanda finally finished cackling and wiping the tears from her eyes, she assumed an innocent expression at the sight of Olivia and Daphne's expectant faces. Each of the glasses in front of her were empty, so she reached for Olivia's beer and took a slug, stalling.

"What?" she asked, screwing up her features in disgust at the warm brew, as if she hadn't already downed several drinks that were roughly the same potency as lighter fluid.

"Fess up, Mandy Lou." Daphne extended her hand, motioning for Amanda to either fill it with cash or dirty details, which were a much higher currency for the clerk. She rolled her eyes when Amanda played dumb and slapped her palm. "Make it good. Something even your boss lady here doesn't know about."

Olivia quirked an eyebrow at the younger woman. She was the boss lady in question, and while the title made her feel a little bit like a female Bruce Springsteen, she didn't hate it. In fact, she was curious to hear Amanda's answer and find out if there really was a turn-on she didn't know about. She cast a sidelong glance at her girlfriend, who was massaging the back of her neck so absently and so diligently she almost winced.

"Ugh." With the hand not kneading up a storm, Amanda rubbed at the leg of her distressed jeans. She'd worn the faded blue pair that were only a shade or two darker than her eyes and enticingly snug about the hips and thighs. Her ass looked amazing in them, of course. Olivia couldn't wait to peel them off later that evening and dine until those thighs were clamped around her ears, that tight little ass cupped firmly in her hands. She gulped down the rest of her beer and restrained the urge to smash the bottle against the ground and carry Amanda off to bed right then, caveman-style.

"Ugh," Amanda repeated, dropping her head forward in defeat and utter despair. The wavy strands of her long blonde hair stood out starkly against her navy blue boat neck sweater. Earlier that evening, when Olivia complained that she felt overdressed, Amanda had "classed up" her own look with a pair of caramel-colored high heels. She dangled one of them from her toe now, bobbing it up and down until the shoe clattered to the floor. "Fine. I like . . . "

The pause dragged on, and the other two women leaned in so close, they were in danger of toppling forward from their stools. They shared a puzzled look when Amanda mumbled something under her breath.

"Penny what?" Olivia asked, guiding the curtain of pale waves back with her finger to get a peek at Amanda's face.

"I think it was 'bendy hoes,'" said Daphne, an ear cocked towards the detective, her palm curled behind it. "And trust me, those aren't all they're cracked up to be."

Huffing loudly, Amanda sat up straight and flicked the hair back from her squared shoulders. "Panty. Hose. I like pantyhose, okay?"

Well, that was definitely new.

"Oh yeah, I've heard of that." Daphne nodded knowingly and sipped at her blush pink beverage. "It's pretty common. You've got yourself a nylon fetish, little missy."

"It ain't a fetish," Amanda griped at her friend, though her eyes were trained on Olivia. She smiled a bit warily, or as warily as someone could be, whose inhibitions had gone down the hatch, along with the tequila, a few drinks ago. "I just think they're sorta sexy."

"If you like camel toes, crotch sweat, and feeling like a summer sausage with two more summer sausages for legs, then yeah, they're hot as hell." Gazing over the brim of her glass, Daphne caught the looks they both shot at her, and she pretended to shrink down meekly in her seat. "Sorry, it's the vodka. That's a perfectly good and valid fetish, Amanda darling, and I'm not judging you in the least."

"It's not a—" Amanda groaned in exasperation and let her head drop again, backward this time. She was going to have whiplash if she kept that up. "Forget I even said anything."

Scooping up the hand Amanda was using to pick at the frayed denim on her knee, Olivia transferred it to her own lap for a reassuring pat, a small squeeze. "I wanna hear about it. What do you find sexy about them? Seeing them on someone else, wearing them yourself, how they feel to the touch . . . ?"

"Any of it." Amanda's cheeks colored, although it may have been the glow of neon liquor signs from behind the bar. She gave a sheepish shrug. Combined with her vaguely tousled hair and rosy complexion, the gesture made her look even younger. "But mostly seeing them on someone else."

Under the table, she rested her hand on Olivia's knee and fiddled with the pleated pink chiffon that covered it. The skirt was nearly the same color as Daphne's drink, lined with a heavier satin fabric; the gauzy top layer was similar to nylon in texture and sheerness. Amanda couldn't stop rubbing it between her fingers. "My Sunday school teacher wore 'em all the time. She used to take off her shoes to sit on the floor and play with us. Her toenails were always painted red. I couldn't stop staring at them in those pantyhose. The seam and everything. Mm-mmm."

"Wow," Olivia said, trying to picture the scene. Little towheaded Mandy, enthralled by her unsuspecting Sunday school teacher's stockinged legs and feet. It was the eighties, meaning the clothes would have been terrible—probably some oversized skirt suit with big buttons and even bigger shoulder pads. And the pantyhose.

Olivia had worn more than her share of the constrictive undergarments in the eighties and most of the nineties, and she remembered well the calisthenics that went into putting them on. All that hitching and squatting. Not exactly her idea of sexy, but she had attracted quite a bit of attention with her long, slender legs whenever she stepped into a pair of nude L'eggs.

"Man, what is it with you and church?" Daphne asked, lowering her voice on the last word and momentarily peering upward as if she expected God to smite her right then and there. "You punched your V-card at church camp and you fantasized about your hot Sunday school teacher's control tops? How old were you?"

"Well, first of all," Amanda said, snaking the arm draped at Olivia's back around her shoulder, one finger raised, "I'm from the Deep South, honey child. Church is everything. Second of all, I did not say that time at camp was when I 'punched my V-card.' And no, you're not getting that story, so don't even ask."

Daphne, who had visibly swelled with excitement at the mention of Amanda's virginity being lost at some other unknown juncture, sighed and deflated like the air had been drained out of her. Honestly, Olivia felt the same way, though she didn't react. She'd been curious to hear the story of Amanda's first time for quite a while.

"Third of all." Amanda brandished three fingers, close to Olivia's ear. "I didn't say hot. She was kind of plain, bless 'er heart. But she was sweet and she wore this rose perfume that just . . ." She inhaled as if she were relishing the scent of a splendid bouquet.

A giggle from Daphne cut through the reverie. Suddenly aware of her audience again, Amanda opened her eyes and resumed an air of nonchalance. "As for fantasizin', I was, like, six or seven, so . . . no. I mean, I did offer to help her reenact Mary Magdalene washing Jesus' feet with her hair, which I'm sure you'll turn into some Freudian sex thing, but I just wanted an excuse to touch her pantyhose. Oh, and I stole a pair from the store a while later. Hard as hell gettin' that big plastic egg to fit in my coat pocket."

"Mandy Lou! You were a little sex fiend and a thief?" Daphne's eyes danced merrily, belying her scandalized tone. She picked up the laminated drink menu from the end of the table and fanned herself with it. "I am shocked and disappointed. And I'll be even more disappointed if you don't tell me what you did with them. Was it kinky? Oh my God, was it bondage? Please say it was bondage!"

"Daph, calm down. I was eight years old." Amanda held up her palm like a traffic cop halting oncoming vehicles. She let it drop back against Olivia's shoulder, idly stroking the white silk of her loose wrap blouse. Even after five minutes in front of the mirror, strategically placing the dramatic V-neck, and several discrete adjustments since then, the top of her lacy white bra was still clearly visible. But Amanda had given it her full approval (her exact words were: "Baby, that shirt makes me wanna slap my grandma") and she had barely stopped touching it all evening.

She was the only lover for whom Olivia had ever tailored her wardrobe. Men were easy. You just threw on something slinky, with lots of cleavage, and they thought you were a goddess. Women paid attention to the finer details—the sensation of a particular fabric, how well it accentuated various parts of the body, the aesthetics of seeing it removed and revealing those parts. Amanda was no different, in spite of her keenness to dive right into sex. The detective liked a good seduction as much as the next girl, and Olivia knew how to dress the part.

Apparently she needed to incorporate pantyhose in the future, though.

"Bondage came later," Amanda added in a sultry little drawl that grabbed both women's attention, for very separate reasons. Olivia recognized that voice from hearing it in the bedroom, during some of their most intimate moments. Just thinking about it made her cheeks warm. "Much, much later."

"Ohmigod." Daphne sounded like she was about to hyperventilate. She fanned herself twice as fast with menu, her hair streaming out at the sides. She was kicking up so much wind, the cocktail napkins fluttered across the table. "Oh. My. God. You guys are into bondage? You told me you didn't use your handcuffs for that stuff. You sit on a throne of lies!"

Amanda's eyes went as wide as the bottom of Olivia's empty beer bottle, and she immediately tried to backtrack. But the damage was done. The seed, no matter how ill-conceived, was sown. Olivia should have known better; she should have realized Amanda was showing off for their friend. But that voice. And the fact that Amanda and Daphne had seemingly discussed the topic before.

"When did you say that?" Olivia asked, trying to sound casual, not accusatory. Not unsteady. She hadn't been bound against her will since she'd been kidnapped by Amelia and Calvin two years earlier, and she barely remembered that, beyond an intense feeling of discomfort and Amanda's account of finding her tied to a bed. Before that, it was when Lourdes Vega forced her to cuff herself; and before that, it was when she'd been taken hostage in the Crivello's townhouse.

None of it compared to being cuffed (tied, duct taped . . . ) to a table or a bed, being groped and kissed and hurt while you waited to be raped and murdered. None of it compared to being chained to a door and having someone's dick shoved in your mouth.

Those things were behind her now. She carried handcuffs with her for a living, for God's sake. They were just objects and she was desensitized from years of slapping them onto criminals without a second thought. She could handle a goddamned conversation about them. She could handle anything.

"I never said that," Amanda hurriedly replied, her grip tightening on Olivia's knee and shoulder. "Don't listen to her, she's drunk."

"Yes, you did. Yes, she did, Liv." Daphne pointed emphatically at the blonde, like she was fingering a suspect in a lineup. "It was at the Halloween party. I asked if you were bossy and she said you weren't, and then I said— Okay, well, maybe I assumed that meant you didn't use cuffs in bed, and she just didn't deny it, but still. Lie by omission."

"Daph? I love you dearly, but shut the hell up," said Amanda, laughing the comment off, although she clearly meant it. She offered Olivia an apologetic smile and attempted to move the subject along by reminding them whose turn it was, but the liquor hadn't affected Olivia's tenacity at all.

Her curiosity, however, had increased sevenfold.

"Is that really something you're into?" she heard herself inquire. Hushed and uncertain, but out loud nevertheless. She shouldn't be asking in front of Daphne, and normally she kept a tight lip about such things in public; but it felt safer this way, while they were laughing and teasing. With Daphne there to interject and keep them from delving too deeply into the subject, they could leave it at the table, along with the paid check. At least that was what she told herself at the time. And knowing her own faulty history at dishonesty, she believed it.

She had always believed she knew exactly what she wanted in the bedroom.

"No. I mean . . ." Amanda hemmed and hawed for a moment. Her knees were bouncing frantically under the table, causing the glasses on it to rattle like a minor earthquake had just hit Hudson Street. "I have tried it, and it's fun and all, but it's not somethin' I can't live without. I like it when my hands are free to roam." She trailed her fingers up and down the side of Olivia's arm, demonstrating.

"Tie up your girlfriend, then, doofus," Daphne suggested, and slurped the dregs of her mixed drink. "You've done it before, haven't you, Liv?"

Lost in thought, Olivia almost missed the question entirely. She knew from past—and vague—comments Amanda had made, and from Reese Taymor's testimony against Deputy Chief Patton, the disgusting son of a bitch had restrained Amanda while he raped her. He'd pinned Taymor's wrists above her head, and MO's seldom varied. Once a sick prick, always a sick prick. She had assumed, based on her own experiences, that Amanda would also be diametrically opposed to any sort of bondage during sex. But the detective didn't sound opposed. As a matter of fact, before Daphne had really started in, Amanda sounded . . . nostalgic.

"Huh?" Olivia took hold of the beer bottle in front of her, just to have something in her hands. They were tingly. "Oh. Um, yeah. Couple times."

"Really?" Amanda asked it so softly, she was almost drowned out by the background music. Some celestial-voiced female singer or other from the nineties. Natalie Merchant, perhaps.

Olivia frowned, scratching at the sticky label residue on the bottle with both of her thumbnails, determined to get every last bit off. She didn't like Amanda's dubious tone. As if someone like her couldn't possibly have engaged in something so risqué as bondage. As if she were too damaged.

True, it hadn't been recently. And true, it was never more than playful dabbling with scarves that came unknotted at the slightest tug, but she had done it. Of course, she hardly remembered the guy's name anymore (Ryan? Robert? Something with an "R"), and she had agreed only to tie him up, not the other way around. She'd never met anyone she trusted enough to let tie her up. If any of the men she'd dated had asked to do so—Roger! And it started as a joke because of the bondage scene in a movie they had just watched—she probably would have dumped them on the spot. Men who liked to tie up women had to be perverted on some level; she knew that even before becoming a cop. She had always known that.

God, maybe she was just too fucking damaged.

"Yeah, when I was younger and more adventurous," Olivia said, with a laugh that came out as more of a cynical sniff. "And braver, I guess."

"Ain't nobody braver than you, darlin'. Then or now." Amanda squeezed her around the shoulders, pulling her close for a peck on the temple. She was sincere enough that Olivia almost believed her. If only her other hand hadn't been gliding up and down Olivia's thigh, savoring the delicate material that covered it.

Maybe then, Olivia could have let it go. Because it was that moment—with Amanda fondling her skirt, so infatuated; with Daphne watching them, envious; and with her own hands incessantly picking at the Halligan's label, Amanda's mauled drinking straw a few inches away on the table, tied into a knot—those ordinary, fleeting seconds, when she made her decision.

She knew damn well what she wanted, what her girlfriend wanted but was too afraid to ask for, and she wasn't going to give her attackers a foothold in their life—hers and Amanda's—or their bedroom any longer. Time to be brave again, Captain Benson.

With that decided, she actually felt as though a weight had lifted. She felt really damn good. And the blonde at her side looked really damn good. Impulsively, she turned and kissed Amanda square on the lips, not caring a bit that they were in plain view of a large crowd, including their lascivious friend. (Daphne crowed in delight.) When they parted, Olivia held her beer bottle aloft until she got a nod from the bartender.

"You guys want another round?" she asked, already indicating that the refill was for the table. The bartender, a young woman with colorful tattoo sleeves and a cute asymmetrical bob, smiled and gave her a wink. It was the same girl who had been staring at her tits.

"I'm 'bout to slap that stupid haircut right off that little hussy, if she doesn't put her eyes back in her head," said Amanda, licking the beer taste off her lips from Olivia's sneak attack kiss.

"Well, I mean . . . have you seen your girlfriend?" Daphne asked, gesturing at Olivia like Vanna White presenting a particularly attractive string of consonants. "With the hair and the eyes and the lips. And the . . . " Her voice trailed off, eyes lingering on anything but Olivia's face. "And the lips . . . "

Olivia was still giggling and pushing Amanda's hands away, the detective pretending to adjust her top to a more modest fit, when the drinks arrived. But no matter the amount of alcohol consumed, no matter the shameless flirtation just across the table, Daphne would not be deterred from her earlier question. She wanted Olivia's weirdest nonsexual turn-on and she wanted it now, dammit, she said, drumming her small fists against the table.

"Hmm." Olivia mulled it over with the Halligan's poised at her lips. There was no way in hell she was going to answer honestly, even if she had just experienced an awakening of sexual freedom. Telling the truth would mean admitting she found pregnant women irresistibly alluring—their full breasts and swollen tummies, their perfect glowing skin and shiny hair—and that was not something she cared to acknowledge, even to herself.

She hadn't noticed it until recently, or at least hadn't given a name to the fascination she felt when confronted with someone about to give birth. It wasn't exactly a physical attraction, so much as a deep reverence and a desire she couldn't quite pinpoint. And Daphne, God love her, wasn't getting her hot little hands (or her dirty little mind) on that one. There were some things that should remain private, no matter how avid your listeners.

A wicked smile formed behind the lip of the Halligan's, and Olivia set the bottle down with deliberate weight. She rotated the ridged bottom against the table for a slow, ticking effect, like a gradually turned combination lock or an ascending roller coaster. Good, she had their full attention. And then:

"Beer bottles," she said in the provocative tone she reserved for randy perps and for Amanda, when the detective played her cards right.

Daphne huffed, but her eyes continued to follow the bottle round and round. "Is this like that Brady Bunch episode? Next, you're going to tell us your boyfriend's name is George Glass."

"Yeah, babe," Amanda agreed, but she wasn't looking away, either. "That's kinda . . . phallic."

"Not really. If you think about the curves, the smoothness—" Olivia grazed her fingers along the bottle, outlining each dip in the thick amber-colored glass. She circled her fingertip around the rim a few times, then drew it sensually across her tongue. "The taste."

"And they're so, so wet," she added breathily, collecting the beads of moisture that clung to the bottle like dew. She pumped her fist slowly up and down its neck, ensuring she had a captive audience. They were riveted, both sets of blue eyes wide and unblinking as she simulated a handjob for several more seconds.

Right when they were about to pop, Olivia stopped and flicked the condensation from the bottle at their flushed faces. They blinked as if she'd slapped them, though there couldn't have been more than an airborne drop or two per flick. "You guys are so easy," she said, and took a long pull from the bottle.

"Holy sweet hell, woman." Amanda gazed at her in open wonder—and maybe a little fear.

"Your girlfriend is evil," Daphne said, wiping her cheek with a napkin and handing one over to Amanda. "I think I'm in love with her."

. . .

Chapter 2 coming soon.