Warning: This story deals with some sensitive subject matter, including rape fantasies and BDSM. It takes place during an AU Season 3 where Alex and Olivia are already dating, in a happy universe where Alex doesn't disappear two seasons later. The narrative follows Olivia as she attempts to reconcile her experiences on the job and her own past with Alex's desires. All the sex scenes in the story are consensual, but there will be roleplays of non-consensual sex (some successful, some definitely not). This story also includes humiliation play and strap-ons, although that's pretty par for the course with me. I would love any and all kind, constructive feedback on this one, whether it's just a much-appreciated "great job" to let me know the subject matter spoke to you, suggestions for future chapters of the story, or gently pointing out things that you believe I could have handled better.

. . .

Love Alters Not

. . .

Chapter One:

I'm still shivering as I stand in front of the door to her apartment, even though I'm inside, protected from the ragged bursts of wind. The only reason my hands haven't frozen off is the warm takeout boxes I'm carrying, deliberately leaning them against my chest instead of using the handles so that my palms can be on the bottom of the hot cardboard. I had forgotten my jacket at Alex's earlier this morning, and braving the wind between the skyscrapers in nothing but a sweater wasn't one of my better ideas.

Finally, after a moment - Alex checking cautiously through the peephole, I'm sure - the door opens, and she's smiling at me, her hair still slightly damp from the shower and clinging to the pale line of her neck. "God, Olivia, you look frozen," she murmurs, taking the warm boxes and backing up to let me in.

I sigh, rubbing the tops of my arms through my sweater as I step inside and nudge the door shut with the sole of my shoe. "Didn't think it would get this cold," I explain, a little embarrassed. "I should have played it safe and brought my winter coat to work."

Alex stares at me for a moment from over the tops of her glasses, long enough for a small wrinkle to form in the middle of her forehead. Somehow, that look of concentration always makes my heart skip, even when it's not directed at me. Then, her face breaks into a soft, glowing smile. Suddenly, I don't feel so cold. "Sometimes I don't understand you, Olivia Benson," she sighs, dropping a kiss against the corner of my mouth.

It's not enough, and I try to press forward for more, but she's already turning around, loose sheets of silky blonde hair shifting between her shoulderblades as she heads towards the kitchen with a sway in her hips. I trail after her, taking the time for once to truly appreciate the sight of Alex Cabot walking away. In the squadroom, I have to watch myself. She's still wearing her work clothes, one of my favorite teal skirt and jacket combinations over a white blouse. She hasn't even taken her makeup off yet, and she looks as though she just stepped out of court.

"I wasn't expecting you yet," she says without turning around, setting the boxes on the center of the kitchen island.

I frown. Sometimes, I swear she can read my thoughts. "I got off a little early…"

This time, she does turn to face me, and she's still smiling, although I realize for the first time that she looks tired. I had been paying too much attention to the way her blue eyes looked framed by her glasses to notice the shadows underneath. "Well, I hope you're prepared to get off again, Detective Benson, because I have plans for you later." Her voice is a low purr, a tease.

I can't resist. I step forward, and she lets my hands settle on her hips, even cupping her fingers over mine to keep them there. When I lean down and forward ever so slightly to take her lips, she parts them for my tongue. But I don't take the invitation. Not yet. I kiss her slowly, thoroughly, savoring the softness of her mouth and the satisfied little sounds she makes as my lips skim hers.

Finally, I pull back. The last of the coldness is gone. "Yeah? Well, I have plans for you now." Alex spares a glance towards the takeout boxes, but I slide one of my hands up along her stomach, between her breasts, only stopping to grip her chin and refocus her gaze on me. "That can wait. I can't."

She melts into me, tilting her face for another kiss as my lips close over hers again. This time, she is the one to drag me forward, walking us both towards the kitchen island. The small part of my brain that isn't consumed by Alex is impressed that she can walk backwards so quickly in heels. But she's so warm and eager in my arms, letting me slide a thigh between hers, making soft, encouraging noises against my mouth. I bite her lower lip, tugging it between my teeth as I pin her.

Her lips pull an inch away, just far enough to murmur my name. "Liv…"

My other hand, the one that isn't tangled in her hair, leaves her hip. I tug her jacket down over her shoulders, leaving the sleeves bunched just above her elbows, trapping her arms behind her. The new position pushes her breasts out, forcing the buttons of her blouse to pull a little tighter. My eyes flick up, to the throbbing point just above the dip in her collarbone, and I unloop the first two, revealing a hint of white lace. Her chest shudders as she takes in an unsteady breath.

I'm torn between taking what I want, and giving her what she wants. If Alex has her way now, she won't want to stop until dinner is cold and we've collapsed in bed together, too exhausted to even shower until tomorrow morning. But even though I want her - God, do I want her - I haven't eaten anything since this morning, and I'm starving. A quick one will have to tide her over.

I pull the collar of her blouse to one side, trailing a string of hot kisses up from the edge of the fabric to the sensitive place just beneath her jaw. She whimpers and lifts her chin to give me more room, but I stay where I am, grazing with just a hint of teeth. Her hips surge forward, pushing against my thigh, but her skirt is still in the way. I reach down, sliding both of my hands just under the hem, and tug it up. She says my name again, louder this time, and something in me sparks. I'm relieved that her stockings stop at mid-thigh, and I don't even bother pulling down her underwear. I just push aside the scrap of lace covering her, groaning a little against her throat when warmth meets my fingers.

She hooks one of her knees around me, the heel of her shoe digging into the back of my thigh, and one of her hands slides into the back pocket of my jeans. Alex doesn't want me to tease her. She wants me inside, as deep and hard as possible. I slide my hand a little lower, stretching her with one finger, then two when I'm sure she's ready. Tight, clinging velvet grips me all the way to the knuckle, and her pulse spikes against my lips.

"Liv, please - fuck!" I cut off her begging by thrusting up, even though I'm already buried as deep as I can go. I find the hard point of her clit, circling until I feel it pulse under the pad of my thumb.

"God, you're so tight," I growl, right beside her ear. It sends a shiver through her whole body, and she rocks forward onto my hand, covering it with more wetness. More heat. More of her. "And you're already so close to coming."

She is close, desperately close, and her heartbeat is getting faster and faster. She's pressed so tight against me that even with clothes between us, I'm having trouble remembering where our bodies end. I drag my fingers out just to hear the perfect sob that breaks in her throat, catching against the swollen, ridged place inside of her. She nearly screams when I pump back into her again. "Yes," she hisses, tilting her head back. Her hand stays in my back pocket, giving her leverage as she tries to ride my fingers, but I won't let her. I hold still until she stops, then keep going once she's learned her lesson.

I can feel the exact moment when she surrenders. To me, to the rhythm and force I've chosen. And then she breaks, letting her head fall back and bracing herself against the edge of the island with her free hand, french nails scrabbling to find a hold somewhere. She can't speak anymore, and I know I'm fucking the words out of her, but I can read her mind. She wonders why she even bothered fighting my tempo in the first place.

"That's it, sweetheart. I want to feel you come around my fingers. In my hand." It's a little tamer than the dirty talk she usually likes, words that are sometimes hard for me to force out. But it's enough. She jerks, freezes, and comes, pulling tight around my fingers and screaming her pleasure to the ceiling and the apartment above. My hand is covered in her wetness, and it's easy to keep taking her through every twitch, every pull of muscle, every shudder.

Moments later, it's over, and she's slumped against my chest, panting into my shoulder and shivering with aftershocks every few seconds. I wait a while before I pull my fingers out, and I feel a sense of loss when I do. She lets out a sigh, but doesn't say anything. Instead, she brings my hand up to her face and wraps her lips around my fingers, sliding her tongue between them.

Over the past ten months, I've gotten used to Alex's habits. The way she always cleans my fingers after I fuck her, if she gets the chance. The way she shivers when I bite her hard enough to leave a mark on her fair skin. The way she runs her fingers through my hair, redirecting me to kiss back up along her stomach when I try to take her in my mouth more often than not, and opens the bedside drawer for one of our toys instead. When I asked why, she said I should use my handcuffs if I wanted to go down on her. At first, I thought she was joking. Then, I realized it made her come faster.

"That was amazing," she says after I pull my fingers out with a soft pop. "You're amazing." Her hair brushes my cheek, and I inhale the floral scent of her shampoo. Apple blossoms. "God, I would be on my knees, sucking you off right now if I didn't know you would stop me."

"Rain check," I whisper as she lowers her foot back to the floor, a little unsteady on her heels after her orgasm.

"With or without your cock?"

That had been another surprise. Not the fact that Alex wanted me to use one, but how often she asked for it. The first time she had wrapped her fist around the base and slid her perfectly glossed lips over the head, grinding the seat against my clit as she took me into her mouth… I came in seconds. I hadn't even realized I could orgasm that way.

Even though she's not what I'm used to, we're good together. Really good. Some of the best sex I've ever had in my life. She says it's the same for her, and I believe it. But sometimes, when I'm on top of her, pumping into her and filling her as much as I can, she closes her eyes, almost like she's shutting herself away in her own head for a few seconds because it's too much.

It's one of the times when I don't know what she's thinking.

When she realizes I haven't answered her, she pulls her skirt back down and shakes her head at me, giving me a slight push towards the sink. "Wash your hands," she murmurs, dropping one last kiss on my cheek. "I'll get dinner and open some wine."

I raise my eyebrows. "Wine?" I can't resist asking. "With Thai?"

She shrugs. "Why not wine with Thai?"

I don't have a good reason, and honestly, a glass sounds good. But never more than a glass. A few unpleasant benders during college and years of growing up with an alcoholic parent were enough to tell me that if I developed a serious relationship with booze, the resulting break-up would be nasty.

While she plates the food, I wash my hands in the sink, enjoying the smell of citrus, but wishing it didn't have to replace her. I wipe my hands dry on my jeans and turn around just in time to see her toss the empty boxes in the garbage can. She reaches up to open the liquor cabinet, and suddenly, I remember something. "Hey, did I leave my jacket here? The last time I saw it was this morning…"

Alex thinks about it for a moment. Then, her face brightens. "Check the back of the sofa," she says. "Do you want to eat out there, or in here?"

"Either." I give her another smile and head back for the living room, trying to remember if I saw the jacket when I came in or not. It's my favorite, but I think Alex likes it even more than I do. Probably because it's leather. On special occasions, I indulge her by wearing the jacket and nothing else.

My jacket is right where she said it would be, draped over the back of the couch. I pick it up and tie the sleeves around my waist, knowing I'll forget it otherwise. Then, I happen to glance down at the cushions. They're all covered in papers, although there's a small nest at the far edge of the couch. Just looking, I can picture Alex curled up there, legs tucked neatly beneath her as she skims through a file.

Then, I frown. Something is niggling at me. Call it detective's instincts.

Her docket is mostly clear right now after her last two convictions. Elliot and I have a few cases pending, but nothing immediate. The past week has been quiet for the entire squad. Why bring so much work home? Why invite me for dinner if she knew she was going to be swamped?

I circle around the couch and pick up the nearest file. Not to snoop, I tell myself. Just because I'm curious. I frown when I see the name Joe Poletti scribbled onto the outside. "But he was convicted two days ago," I say, talking to myself under my breath. Pam Tilden's dog earring had sealed the case, even though the divers hadn't found her head. What did Alex need with his file?

I open it, and regret the decision after only a few sentences. Poletti's disgusting stories. A couple lines are highlighted. Unfortunately, I've picked the one where the rapist shocks his victim to death after torturing her. Hearing Alex read the first page in court was bad enough. "I can't believe he was actually stupid enough to send these to convicted felons," I mutter, slightly comforted by the fact that he's one now, too. Plenty of time to write in prison, but no victims to take out his sadistic behavior on, either. I hope he rots there.

I close the file and set it on the coffee table, wondering what the hell Alex is doing with it. The trial is over. Petrovsky locked him away for the maximum sentence allowed. Then, another paper catches my eye. I pick this one up, too. More lines are highlighted, but as I skim over the first few paragraphs, I notice differences. This one actually uses commas, for one. And as I read, I begin to realize that it's about two women. I frown, trying to remember if any of the stories I had viewed during the investigation matched this one, but I already know Poletti isn't the author. Even without taking the grammar into account, this doesn't seem like him.

For a split second, I consider calling out to Alex. Asking her what on earth she's been working on. But instead, I read a line of dialogue. The word 'whore' is highlighted in yellow. Next to it, '17 - degradation' is scrawled in red pen. Alex's handwriting. It takes me a while to realize that she's actually counting words, making lists. Curious, I flip to the back of the story. She has an entire chart written out. Words, phrases, actions, all with numbers below them in a grid.

I set the story down, blinking to try and push back the fog that is slowly creeping into my head. Even my movements feel thick and clumsy as I open the file again, flipping to the back of Poletti's story. There's a chart scribbled on it, too, in pencil this time, with several eraser marks. Some of the words are the same. Others are different. My hands shake, and I almost drop the file again, unsure what I'm looking at, but convinced it isn't good.

That's when I hear her voice behind me. "Olivia? What are you doing?" It is not friendly or loving this time. It is sharp. Accusatory. Panicked.

I jump, drop the file, stumble back. Normally, I always hear her coming, but this time… I swallow. She's standing behind me, holding perfectly still with a bowl in each hand. A fork for her, chopsticks for me. "Alex. What is… this?" I gesture at the papers, unwilling to touch them again for some reason.

Alex does not answer at first. Instead, she looks at me for a long moment, studying my face with an intensity that makes me want to squirm. But I stare back at her, unwilling to be intimidated into taking back the question. I'm not sure why, but I need to know.

Finally, a flicker of softness returns to her blue eyes. At the same time, the lines in her face pull tighter, and she sighs. "Those are some of Joe Poletti's stories. Not exactly pleasant before-dinner reading material. Put them away."

But I don't put them away. There's more she isn't telling me. Alex Cabot is an excellent liar, but the almost frightened way she said my name when she came up behind me has already given her away. "All of them?" I ask, already knowing what she's going to say.

She sighs again, setting the bowls on a clear part of the coffee table before slumping onto the couch. This time, she does not meet my eyes. "No. Not all of them. Some belong to me."