A/N: I've had this story in mind since I wrote the Truth or Dare chapter of Idle Hands. Just took me a while to flesh it out. And once I got started, I couldn't stop. So, welcome to another accidental 15k+ word fic, my dears. I've split it up into chapters again, for easier consumption and posting. This one will be 4-ish chapters (the final one is more of an epilogue). I only intended two at first, so if the stopping points seem a bit abrupt, that's why. Lots of trigger warnings here... TW Graphic descriptions of sexual assault/rape, including statutory rape; underage sex; allusions to child abuse; and would it really be a Rolivia fic without a strong dose of unhealthy coping mechanisms? /TW Be prepared for some mild & symbolic smut and more angst than you can shake a stick at. I've found at least four hints at things to come in the long fic hidden within this story (yes, found, b/c I wrote them and promptly forgot about them, lol). Just FYI. Thank you to Amy for the beta'ing and for the free therapy that got me to a place where I could write this.

Chapter 1: Knots

. . .

The knots were so tough, Olivia had to use most of her strength to loosen them. She plied diligently with her thumbs, moving them outward in widening circles over each hard spot she found, her other fingers clenching and unclenching around muscle. She was quite good with her hands, or so she had been told by the half-dozen people on whom she'd performed this service. Of those six, she had mostly been clothed with three of them, had sat—like this—straddling the waist of two others, and only one had moaned as vocally as Amanda did now. That last was Elliot Stabler, but they had both been fully dressed and neither of them were straddling any body parts at the time.

"Jesus, you're tight," Olivia said, leaning into Amanda's shoulder blade with her fingertips, working at the flesh until she met angular, prominent bone. Once again, she caught herself admiring the woman's delicate bone structure, her ivory skin and the way it rippled and smoothed at a touch, ebbing and flowing like the tide. Amanda's body was the ocean, Olivia's hands the moonlight, exerting their eternal pull.

"Bet you say that to all the hot blondes you give full-body massages to," Amanda replied, barely audible from inside the headrest she had formed with her folded arms, face down against the mattress. Her messy braids were splayed apart, one over each shoulder, the wispy hairs that had escaped clinging to the back of her neck like gossamer threads.

She actually knew how to weave a fairly intricate plait ("I had to learn something during all those middle school detentions," she said, when Olivia remarked on the Heidi braids that had spontaneously appeared in their daughters' hair that morning), and these were double-sided French braids that her fine tresses couldn't quite hold in place. When she had fashioned Olivia's hair into an elegant waterfall braid—the thick, dark strands of which held fast, even now, in the afterglow—she'd spent the entire time grumbling about some people having more hair than they knew what to do with, and why couldn't they share it with the rest of the folks who weren't as fortunate?

Olivia had responded by pulling Amanda in by those cute little Swiss Miss braids and planting a hearty kiss on her grumpy lips. That took care of the complaining, and when Olivia spent the next half-hour applying her mouth to various parts of Amanda's person, the only thing coming from the blonde's lips were long, sensual moans and colorful expletives. She came three times, practically one after the other, and promptly fell asleep with her head cushioned on Olivia's breasts.

Not getting a turn hadn't bothered Olivia; her detective deserved to be the center of attention once in awhile. Her trauma and its long-lasting, far-reaching repercussions had taken up too much of their time lately, and she was beginning to fear it would overshadow the relationship entirely if she didn't get it under control. (She was seeing Dr. Lindstrom again. The only constant man in her life, it would seem.)

Tonight was all about Amanda Jo. No roles to play, no costumes or props. Just the two of them, their bodies stripped bare and given freely to each other, for whatever purpose deemed fit. And when Amanda woke with a kink in her neck another half-hour later, Olivia had deemed the deep massage absolutely necessary.

The part about being stripped bare wasn't exactly true, either. Amanda was indeed naked from head to toe, but when the kissing and caressing first took a more heated, intimate turn, she'd been wearing the most darling lingerie set Olivia had ever seen: a black satin fitted camisole that ended just below the rib cage, ruching at the sides and bust, and a pair of the tiniest shorts imaginable, with scalloped lace trim around the thighs and waist.

Her initial reaction was laughter because her own lingerie matched the ensemble, as if she had coordinated their undergarments beforehand—sheer black nylon bra and panties, with floral embroidery at the breast, hips and backside. They left nothing to the imagination, but she'd kept them on while she made love to Amanda. A floor-length tulle robe with chantilly lace detailing and a silk sash hung from the bedpost. It was the only article of clothing Olivia had removed thus far. From herself, anyway. She'd reveled in divesting Amanda of every inch of the satin almost as much as she enjoyed ogling her in it.

Now, gazing down at Amanda's well-toned back, the delicate hint of muscle, the tiny mountain range of her spine, and oh those lovely dimples, Olivia couldn't help getting lost in her partner's beauty. And that was just from behind. The front was even better.

She smiled to herself at the thought and went on kneading in between and around Amanda's shoulder blades. Perhaps it was the rotating motion that got the wheels in her head turning, but after a moment she began to wonder about some things. Nothing she hadn't already wondered about before, although the silence, interrupted by an occasional sigh or throaty rumble of pleasure, only brought it to the forefront and increased her curiosity. Amanda was more open to talking after sex, and she was even further receptive to a little prying while in a massage-induced stupor. Olivia could probably have found out anything she wanted to know just then, but decided to start small. She wouldn't abuse her position—the physical one or the girlfriend one—and risk making Amanda feel trapped into answering.

"Tell me about your first time," she ventured lightly, rubbing the heel of her palm into an especially stubborn knot at the nape of Amanda's neck. The poor thing was more tangled up than a strand of Christmas lights just out of storage. Olivia made a mental note to find her detective a real masseuse and to figure out the source of all that pent-up stress.

She half expected Amanda to feign ignorance and ask which first time. Braiding her own hair? Making a perp cry like a baby, as she had earlier that afternoon? Getting a massage from a scantily clad woman who sat astride her middle (and whose arousal was probably detectable at the small of her back)?

But after a brief pause, Amanda turned her face aside to peer over one shoulder, gazing askance at Olivia, and stated with slight amusement, "Well, that came smack-dab right outta nowhere."

Olivia grinned at the expression and the deep twang in which it was delivered. Never in a million years would she have believed a Southern accent could be a turn on, but Detective Rollins lived to prove her wrong. "Sorry. It's just something I've been wondering about. You don't have to tell me, if you don't want to."

"This is because of Daphne and all that 'V-card' malarkey, idn't it?"

Sharp. As. A. Tack. Olivia was pretty sure she would have been curious with or without their salacious friend's input, but the topic did tend to arise most frequently when Daphne was around. The clerk had a vested interest in her Mandy Lou's love life, and Olivia couldn't blame her. "Maybe a little."

Amanda reached back and patted Olivia's thigh, indicating she needed room to roll over. When granted, she flipped onto her backside and took Olivia by the hips, tugging her firmly into place before she could abandon the post on top. Amanda slid both hands farther down and cuffed her on the ass, groping. "I'm gonna kick that little pipsqueak's bee-hind next time I see it."

That was how she said it: bee-hind. Olivia gave her hair an unnecessary toss, only for it to tumble over her shoulder as she inclined her head towards Amanda with a playfully scolding look. She was fully aware of the effect she was having—Amanda's pupils were three times their normal size—just as she was aware of the effect the blonde had on her. Her body was on fire as she gazed down at those perfect, pert little breasts. And when her palms glided over them, resuming the massage, it required all her willpower to stay focused on the conversation and not lean down to take one of the dainty rosebud nipples in her mouth.

"You will not," she said fondly, smoothing her hands over Amanda's chest in lazy, aimless strokes. She rolled her hips, pressing her rear end into the tight grip Amanda still had on it. "And the only bee-hind I catch you looking at had better be mine."

"Jealous?" Amanda teased, doing a little massaging of her own. She hissed like a hot griddle at the tweak she received, even though Olivia's fingers barely closed on the nipple. Her entire upper body flushed the color of pink saltwater taffy.

God, Olivia could just eat her up.

"Of Daphne?" She crinkled her nose and gave another exaggerated swish of her hair. It fell to the middle of her upper arm these days and felt rather luxurious when she shook it around her bare shoulders like that. Plus, Amanda looked at it as if she were on the verge of another five or six rapid-fire orgasms. "Not hardly. She's cute and all, but she's built like a twelve-year-old. I guess if that's what you're into . . . "

"Uh, no, ma'am." Amanda confirmed the response by trailing her gaze and her touch reverently along each and every one of Olivia's bountiful curves. No grabbing or squeezing, just appreciating. Olivia was beginning to think they had strayed too far off topic and too deep into erogenous zones for her question to be answered, until Amanda added, "But speaking of twelve-year-olds . . ."

"Oh my God," Olivia said, gaping in horror. She'd actually felt her stomach drop at the realization of where Amanda was going with that comment. "Oh, honey, please don't tell me you were twelve when you lost your virginity."

Amanda toyed with Olivia's bra strap, inching it off one shoulder to dangle loosely against that arm. She repeated the action on the other side and observed the results with clear satisfaction, a sultry little smirk on her lips. "Nah, I wasn't."

"Thank God."

"He was twelve. I's thirteen." Amanda grazed her fingers back and forth across Olivia's cleavage with the graceful, swaying gesture of a conductor before an orchestra. One of the lighter, airier sections, perhaps—the woodwinds or the strings. She hesitated mid-stroke when she noticed Olivia's dismay. "What? It was consensual. And actually . . . I initiated it, so."

Olivia hadn't heard a word after "twelve" and "thirteen." Her jaw worked uselessly for a moment, lips failing to produce a sound. When she did speak, she could only sputter, "Thirteen. Thirteen?" in a series of disbelieving pitches and inflections. "Th-thirteen."

"Aw, baby, did I break ya?" Amanda asked in an amused tone, pretending to peer into Olivia's eyes to see if there was still a functioning brain behind them. "You sure you wanna hear this?"

The main reason Olivia couldn't stop repeating "thirteen" was because it had occurred to her that Noah would be the same age in five more years. He would be twelve in a year less than that. After such a frightening revelation, she wasn't convinced she did want to hear the rest. But she had asked for it, and Amanda was talking. She'd been listening to stories like this for over twenty years, she knew how to remain stoic. (But Jesus, thirteen?)

Clearing her throat softly, Olivia tossed her hair again, this time to dispel the unpleasant thoughts swirling around in her brain. If it had the added benefit of turning Amanda on, then so be it.

"Yes," she said resolutely, trying not to imagine the pictures she'd seen of the blonde as a young teen. Skinny as a rail, worn-out cowboy boots up to her knobby knees, a golden dusting of downy hair on her spindly little arms, and that head of white dandelion fluff. She didn't even have breasts yet. (Thirteen?!) "Go on. He was—" Olivia gulped. "—twelve. You were . . . older."

"Yeah, Daughtry Boatwright. Helluva name, huh?" Amanda traced lazy, meandering lines up and down Olivia's sides with her fingertips, occasionally traveling higher or lower as the spirit moved her. "He was a grade behind me, but all the middle school girls were in love with him. And the elementary girls, for that matter. Kim was so pissed when I asked him to the spring dance and he said yes. Still thinks I stole him from 'er."

That sounded like Amanda's sister, all right. Olivia didn't know the young woman very well, but she had learned one thing for certain in the short amount of time they interacted with each other—Kim Rollins was so jealous of her older sister she couldn't even see straight. Amanda didn't sound the least bit bothered by it now; in fact, she had rolled her eyes and snickered at the mention of Kim's resentment. Olivia offered a sympathetic touch anyway, smoothing her palms across the detective's collar bone and pinching lightly at the slopes of flesh on either side. She kept it up when Amanda hummed contentedly.

"Wasn't she, like, nine back then?" Olivia asked, to show she was listening and to help coax the story along.

"I think she'd just turned ten, but yeah. She wanted him real bad. Used to prance around in her little sundresses whenever he came over to study. She'd stand there, fiddling with the straps and hoping he'd look at her." Thoughtfully, Amanda plucked at one of the lax bra straps on Olivia's arm, but let it fall back into place without any real attempt at removal. "Think he mighta once or twice."

The statement was vague enough to be just an afterthought, but the lack of emotion behind it troubled Olivia. She studied Amanda's face for a clue as to what she felt, and found only lovely porcelain features and eyes of endless ocean blue.

"She wasn't already having sex by then, was she?" Olivia asked as delicately as possible, careful not to sound judgmental or appalled. No matter how casual Amanda's attitude towards sex, she had still cared enough about others' opinions to get her own name tattooed on her arm as a reminder. As proof she wasn't the slut they made her out to be. She didn't need Olivia gasping and cringing over her story like a scandalized old lady, even if it was over her younger sister.

Amanda's gaze snapped up to meet Olivia's a little too fast, the irises a bit stormier than they had been a second ago, but she shrugged the question off quickly and the sudden tightness in her muscles dissipated. "Nah. Well, not that I know of anyway." And a moment later, with the same dispassion as before, she added, "Started up not long after that, though."

Realizing her hands had stopped moving at the same time she began holding her breath, Olivia exhaled and resumed rubbing absently at Amanda's shoulders. She massaged her way down one long, slender arm—the downy hair there still shone gold in the light—and then the other, lost deep in thought. Early sexual behavior was often a sign that a child had been molested. Maybe that wasn't the case here, but a sexually active preteen did not sit right with Olivia, whether it was Kim Rollins or otherwise.

"Penny for your thoughts, Cap'n," Amanda said, a knowing glint in her eye. She didn't sound defensive though, and that was encouraging. She hadn't exactly become an open book since their disastrous encounter at the hotel—Olivia was convinced, at the time, that her own recklessness and stupidity had destroyed their relationship completely—but she did seem to be trying. Now, for instance, she visibly prepared herself for the question and invited: "Shoot."

Olivia swept Amanda's bangs aside with her fingertip, even though they weren't in the way. She stroked the soft, pale cheek a few inches below with the backs of her fingers. "Was someone abusing her?" Giving it a second thought, she gently amended, "Either of you?"

Face turned just so, Amanda waited for Olivia's hand to approach again, then pecked it swiftly on the passing palm. "Me? Nah, I was too feral and unpredictable. They woulda had too much fight on their hands if they'd gone after me, and they knew it."

They. The generic pronoun made Olivia shudder, for reasons she couldn't quite put her finger on. She found she didn't want to try. And Amanda was probably right—predators looked for easy targets, ones they could control and frighten into silence. A wild-card like little Mandy Rollins would have scared most child molesters away.

(Most.)

"But Kim? I'm, uh— I'm not sure. I've kinda always wondered." Amanda's brow furrowed despite the soothing touches Olivia continued administering, despite her own hands traversing Olivia's middle. She lingered on a stretch of tummy, grazing idly. "I don't think so. Nah, I mean . . . Nah, Kim can't keep a secret to save her life. She would've told me something like that."

It made Olivia's heart ache to hear Amanda struggling to convince herself. Knowing someone else had been abused on your watch was the worst kind of hell. Some days, Olivia had hope she might get past the horrors visited upon her mind and body by her attackers, but she would never forget sitting by—uselessly, helplessly—while Mrs. Mayer was raped and tortured in front of her, while Tess Crivello cried and screamed in the next room as her innocence was torn away with a violent thrust. Olivia had at least been equipped to deal with her assaults; she was armed at the start of two of them, for God's sake, and she knew how rapists thought, what motivated them to commit such atrocities. She understood the nature of rape and should be able to make more sense of it than an old woman or a teenage girl possibly could, right?

Right?

If Amanda felt even a little bit of that self-blame, Olivia wanted to ease it. She wanted to take it away like the knots she had unraveled in Amanda's body, so beautiful and vibrant beneath her attentive hands.

"It's not your fault if she was," Olivia said, with as much weight as she dared. They were navigating dangerous territory, and she didn't care to set off any more explosives this soon after the blowup at the hotel. But it needed to be said. "You were a child, Amanda. It wasn't your responsibility to protect her. Or your mother."

Through a thin, unconvincing smile, Amanda agreed. "Yeah."

Perhaps it wasn't much, but the fact that she didn't throw a wall up around her emotions, didn't lash out on impulse, was progress.

Very brief, very fleeting progress.

"Anyway. Back to Daughtry." Amanda delivered a brisk clap to Olivia's thighs, signaling the end of the darker turn their conversation had taken. Loud and abrupt, but not painful. She chafed at the skin anyway, warming it with her palms. "So, I asked him to the dance. He had an older brother in high school. Kid by the name of Memphis. I dated him a few years later. He had this tricked out van with Led Zeppelin album covers airbrushed on the sides. You know Houses of the Holy, with all the naked blond kids? And the fallen angel logo thing?"

Olivia nodded along. She had listened to some Led Zeppelin in her day. Some of it had been an act of rebellion against her mother, who considered most rock music insipid noise, but Olivia did like a lot of their songs, especially "Black Dog" and the quintessential "Stairway to Heaven." She knew the artwork Amanda spoke of, and she schooled her features in preparation for whatever the shady van and the older brother had to do with this part of the story.

"Those were on there. And it had the little bubble windows in the back. Cheesy as hell, but I thought it was so cool at the time." Amanda shook her head, bemused at her own poor taste. "Memphis dropped us off at the dance in it. Told us he'd park it in the empty lot behind the school so we could use it 'for whatever.'"

"Oh, God," Olivia said, catching herself at the last second and biting down on her lip. She counted at least three offenses in that description alone, not to mention facilitating sex between minors, if this went where she suspected it was going. Memphis was well into his forties by now, but Olivia would still like to slap some sense into him. And who the hell named their kid Memphis when they lived in Georgia, anyhow?

"Yeah, he wasn't really firing on all cylinders, that guy," Amanda said, as if she'd read Olivia's entire thought process all over her face. And, knowing Amanda, she probably had. "He smoked a lotta pot. The older kids used his van for that, and to hook up in. It was so scuzzy back there, oh my Lord. But Daughtry 'n me thought we were hot shit gettin' to hang out in it. Ended up ditching the dance early to go make out."

And here we go. Olivia managed to contain most of her distaste, but she had to check: "Please tell me the older brother was gone by then."

Amanda chuckled at the wary tone and reached up to tweak fondly at Olivia's scrunched nose. "Yeah, darlin', we had the van to ourselves. Memphis was off chasin' poon with the eighth-grade girls who got held back a year."

"Charming."

"Them Boatwright boys were all about the charm, yes ma'am." Amanda flashed a bit of dimple, making it nearly impossible to be put off by the suggestive thrust of her hips that punctuated the sentence. The Boatwright boys weren't the only ones who knew how to turn on the charm. "Daughtry was actually pretty sweet. Kinda shy. I think I scared him a little."

"Now, that," Olivia said, quirking her eyebrow and leaning forward, a hand pressed into the pillow at either side of Amanda's head, tauntingly close but lingering back just enough that their lips didn't meet. "That, I can absolutely believe."

Hunger, as stark as lightning against primal, artless blue, flickered behind Amanda's eyes. She literally licked her lips in anticipation. And when her fingers glided into the hair at the back of Olivia's head, palm cupped around her skull, pulling her down those final few inches, the kiss that resulted was electric. It lasted so long, so deep, Olivia almost forgot what they had been discussing beforehand. Something about a van and naked blond children . . .

"Bet you those ol' Boatwright boys never kissed you like that, did they?" Olivia husked when they parted, easing back to swipe at their lips and catch their breath.

Wearing a huge, giddy grin, so pink it looked like she had applied lipstick while riding in the back of a bumpy pickup, Amanda shook her head firmly from side to side. "Huh-uh. Always thought us Southern gals knew a thing or two about smoochin', but ain't nobody ever kissed me like you do, city girl."

The accent had cranked up a notch to suit the poor grammar, and Olivia found herself utterly beguiled by it, as she was every time Amanda affected her laziest drawl. The ornery little shit knew it, too.

"Good answer." Olivia rewarded her detective with another slow, searching kiss, then sat back on her haunches. She lowered herself onto Amanda's pelvis with excessive care and some naughty, unnecessary grinding. (Detective Rollins wasn't the only ornery little shit present.)

A groan equal parts agony and ecstasy followed the provocative movement, and Amanda clamped both hands to Olivia's hips, her fingernails just biting in, like a dog that applied its teeth as a warning before ripping off the arm. You're asking for it, lady. Try me.

She was asking for it, but backing off would drive Amanda even more wild—and that was the fun part. Besides, Olivia wanted to hear the end of the story. She scooted a bit higher, settling her weight against Amanda's abdomen instead of the more sensitive areas below. "So, you're in the back of this sleazy mobile sex pad, about to deflower a twelve-year-old. And then . . . ?"

Huffing in frustration, Amanda tried to squirm into the same position she had been in before Olivia moved, but she succeeded only it tiring herself out. Her small breasts jounced with the effort, the nipples as hard and pink as jewels, like the most exquisite of rubies. The rest of her was rose quartz, a color so delicate it belied the strength underneath; except for the lips—her lips were morganite, the soft peachy-pink stone that sparkled more brilliantly than diamonds.

A rare and precious gem, that was Amanda Rollins.

"Sex pad?" she asked, with a snort of laughter that should have come from a much larger, much more masculine frame than the one hundred and twenty-five pounds of blonde Olivia sat upon. It rocked them slightly, the subtle bouncing beneath Olivia releasing a flock of butterflies in her belly. "Calm down, nineteen-seventies playboy Burt Reynolds. Your pornstache is showing."

Had Olivia said rare and precious? She meant roguish smartass. And to be honest, that was even sexier. She palmed Amanda's breasts, savoring the gentle weight of them in her hands, lavishing them with the deep, abiding affection she felt every time she gazed at her sassy little detective. "Please, my love," she said in a velvety, cajoling tone. She didn't like to beg and play the pouty girlfriend, but if it got the job done, she could humble herself from time to time. Mainly because it put such a wicked smirk on Amanda's face when she did it. "I want to hear the rest."

"Better tuck that thing in before you trip over it." Amanda strummed Olivia's bottom lip, which jutted forward just a smidge, with the side of her forefinger. She grazed the pad of her thumb over the same spot right after. "And sorry to disappoint, but there's not a whole lot more to tell. One thing led to another, I asked him if he wanted to 'do it' and he said yes. So we did. Lasted about thirty seconds, I reckon. He got off, I didn't. He fell in love, I didn't. We went back to the dance, and by the next week, I had a different boyfriend."

Anticlimactic in every sense of the word, the ending took Olivia by surprise and she blinked rapidly for a moment, processing the information. Teenagers were impulsive, she knew that. They fell in and out of love about as often as most people changed socks, and engaging in risky sexual behavior was par for the course. (Thirteen!) But Olivia's junior and high school experience had been a world apart from the one Amanda had just described, and she needed a minute. "Wow," was all she could think to say.

"Yeah, pro'ly why I ended up being the Whore of Walton County from freshman to senior year." Amanda was smiling, her hands suddenly roving Olivia's body with more persistence than they had thus far. She crooked a finger around the waistband of Olivia's panties, trailing it idly back and forth, like a child awaiting permission to grab up a coveted toy.

. . .