Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Hotch hadn’t meant to open the fridge.

He told himself he wasn’t snooping—it was just mild hunger, maybe boredom, and possibly the need to remember he was still human after everything.

Foyet was in the bedroom changing, humming some soft tune that had no business sounding so cheerful. Probably peeling off the clothes he’d just worn to kill someone.

Totally normal relationship things.

Hotch pulled the fridge open and was greeted with… absolutely nothing redeemable.

Half a bottle of water. Three sad packs of ramen. A takeout container with something unidentifiable and expired-looking.

He frowned, shut the door, opened it again. No change. Still depressing.

He moved to the cupboard. Two boxes of cereal—off-brand. No milk in sight. A half-broken mug. Some sugar packets. That was it.

This man had knives for days but not a single ingredient that required a stove.

Hotch stood there in stunned silence, the absurdity of his choices finally catching up to him in one bright, fluorescent-lit moment.

He was going through all five stages because this was his life now.

Dating a cereal-for-dinner psychopath with a kill count and no groceries.

In the hallway, Foyet’s voice floated out, light and casual. “Do you want chicken or spicy ramen? I’ve got both!”

Hotch didn’t respond right away. He just stared at the counter.

Then: “Is that all you have ?”

“Yup. I live dangerously.” Foyet reappeared, freshly changed, smiling like a man who hadn’t committed six felonies this week alone. “Want me to make you a bowl?”

Hotch sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Sure,” he said flatly. “Surprise me.”

Because really, what else was he supposed to say?

This was his life now.

And honestly, he wasn’t even surprised anymore.

Chapter Text

Right now, he was bent over the sleek black leather of Foyet’s motorcycle, hands gripping the cool metal of the handlebars, his breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps.

And Foyet was fucking  him.

It had started as a dare, Hotch running his fingers over the glossy paint of the bike, tilting his head with that knowing smirk. “Didn’t take you for the type,” he’d said, voice dripping with amusement.

Foyet had leaned in, caging Hotch between the bike and his body. “Oh?” he murmured, voice low. “And what type is that?”

“The kind that rides something this powerful,” Hotch had teased, trailing his fingers over the gas tank. Then, in a moment of pure, reckless indulgence, he’d added, “Wonder how it feels.”

Foyet’s hand had slid around his waist. “I can show you.”

Hotch had expected him to offer a ride—expected some smug response about how he’d take him anywhere he wanted.

He had not expected this.

Not expected to be fucked over the machine itself, his body pressing against its frame as Foyet’s hands held him down , his grip bruising, possessive, wild.

It was fast, dirty, and Hotch was losing his mind .

Foyet thrust into him, sharp and deep, dragging sounds out of Hotch that he couldn’t even pretend to contain. The vibrations of the metal beneath them, the scent of leather and oil, the sheer filthiness of it all had Hotch’s head spinning.

“You wanted to know how it feels?” Foyet rasped against his ear, his breath hot. “How’s this?”

Hotch could barely speak. His fingers clenched around the handlebars, his knuckles white. “Fuck-”

Foyet chuckled, dark and pleased, dragging his nails down Hotch’s spine. “That’s what I thought.”

He thrust harder, the impact making the bike shift slightly beneath them, the slight danger of it making Hotch dizzy with need.

His control was shattered, his usual arrogance crumbling under the weight of Foyet’s relentless pace. His moans were desperate, wrecked, his body trembling as he took it , as he let Foyet ruin him completely.

And Foyet? Foyet was loving it.

“You look good like this,” he murmured, dragging his teeth over the back of Hotch’s neck. “All bent over for me.”

Hotch let out a strangled sound, his hips pressing back, chasing more.

Foyet laughed, his grip tightening. “Desperate now, are we?”

Hotch didn’t care. Didn’t need to be smug anymore. Right now, all that mattered was this Foyet claiming him, making him feel every inch of it, every bit of that possessive, jealous need that he tried so hard to hide.

And Hotch?

Hotch loved it.

Chapter Text

Neither of them meant to end up in Strauss’s office.

Really.

But Foyet had been pulling Hotch through the halls, searching for somewhere more private, and somehow— somehow —they ended up here.

And, well Hotch hates Strauss.

Which is why he’s now pressed up against her desk, deliberately provoking Foyet, knowing exactly what he’s doing.

“This is not a good idea,” Foyet mutters against his lips, hands tight on Hotch’s waist like he’s physically holding himself back. “I mean, sure, I love a good risk, but Strauss’s office?”

Hotch kisses him harder in response.

Foyet makes a noise that is definitely not a protest.

“ You were the one dragging me through the halls looking for somewhere private,” Hotch murmurs, teasing, as he drags his fingers along the front of Foyet’s shirt.

“Yeah, somewhere actually private,” Foyet says, exasperated. “Not the office of your boss. Who, might I add, hates you. ”

Hotch smirks. “Exactly.”

Foyet groans, dropping his forehead against Hotch’s shoulder. “You’re actually insane.”

Hotch just tilts his head and kisses along Foyet’s jaw, very, very deliberately testing his patience.

And then.

The door handle turns.

Both of them freeze.

There is zero time to think.

Foyet, thinking fast, grabs Hotch and pulls him into the shadows behind a bookshelf just as Strauss steps inside.

Hotch is trying not to laugh.

Foyet wants to strangle him.

“What part of this is funny?” Foyet hisses, genuinely panicked, as Strauss moves around her office, going through files.

Hotch, still smirking, leans in close and whispers against his ear, “Come on, I know you love the risk.”

Foyet glares. “I draw the line at getting caught in the office of someone who could literally fire you. ”

Hotch hums, tilting his head slightly. “You’re really worried about me losing my job?”

“I’m worried about me being thrown into federal custody,” Foyet corrects. “Though yes, I also happen to like you with a job. It’s charming.”

Hotch’s smirk grows.

Foyet knows that look.

“Do not start something right now,” Foyet warns.

Hotch, very deliberately, shifts slightly so that his leg is pressing just right against Foyet’s.

Foyet physically tenses.

“Aaron.”

Hotch knows this is a terrible idea.

He knows they should just stay quiet and wait for Strauss to leave.

And yet.

The idea of making Foyet squirm is just too good to pass up.

He leans in, brushing his lips against Foyet’s ear, and whispers, “What would you do if I kissed you right now?”

Foyet shuts his eyes. He physically grips Hotch’s waist, hard, like it’s the only thing stopping him from completely losing it.

“You’re actually going to kill me, ” Foyet mutters.

Hotch just smirks.

Strauss, thankfully, doesn’t stay long.

As soon as the door clicks shut behind her, Foyet grabs Hotch’s face and kisses him so hard that it actually dazes him for a second.

Then, Foyet pulls away, glaring.

“Never again, ” he says. “Not here. ”

Hotch, clearly unrepentant, just runs his hands down Foyet’s chest.

“Fine,” he says. “We’ll do it in Rossi’s office next time.”

Foyet groans.

Chapter Text

It’s stupid.

It’s reckless.

It’s so fucking risky .

And yet, Hotch is bent over a supply shelf in a locked closet, Foyet pressed right up behind him, hands gripping his hips.

“God,” Foyet murmurs against his ear, voice hushed but thrilled , “I love this.”

Hotch would respond, but he barely gets the chance because at that moment, they hear it.

The sound of someone unlocking the door.

They freeze.

For a fraction of a second, Hotch just stares at the door, barely processing it

Then he’s moving, yanking Foyet toward the back of the closet, where the larger storage boxes are stacked.

They wedge themselves behind the shelves, practically crushed together, just as the door swings open.

Foyet exhales sharply against Hotch’s neck as they squeeze into the cramped space, too close, too pressed together.

It’s painful.

Hotch clenches his jaw. Not the time to think about that.

From their hiding spot, they hear someone walk in, muttering under their breath as they rifle through supplies.

Hotch doesn’t even care who it is he’s too focused on the fact that Foyet is pressed against him in a way that’s borderline obscene .

Every movement, every slight breath, every shift makes the space between them even smaller .

Foyet’s hands, still gripping Hotch’s waist, tighten slightly.

Hotch can feel his breath against his ear when he whispers, amused, “Bet you’re wishing we weren’t hiding right now.”

Hotch very subtly steps on his foot.

Foyet bites back a laugh, shifting slightly, just enough to make Hotch feel how much he’s enjoying this.

Asshole.

They don’t move. They don’t breathe. They wait .

After what feels like an eternity, the person in the closet finally finds what they’re looking for and leaves, closing the door behind them.

Silence.

Then.

“God,” Foyet murmurs, voice low, teasing. “That was hot .”

Hotch shoves him. “Shut up.”

Foyet just grins. “ You were the one bent over, babe.”

Hotch glares at him, pushing away from their hiding spot. “We’re done with this.”

“Sure,” Foyet says, far too smug as they slip out of the closet together. “Until next time.”

Hotch doesn’t dignify that with a response.

Because unfortunately , he knows Foyet’s right.

Chapter Text

Foyet traced the flat edge of the knife down Hotch’s bare skin, watching as a shiver ran through his body. His touch was slow, teasing, just enough pressure to make Hotch feel it but not enough to cut.

Hotch was trembling, his breathing uneven, eyes glassy with a mix of pain and pleasure. His hands were clenched into fists, but he wasn’t pulling away. If anything, he was leaning into it, desperate for more .

Foyet smirked. “You love this, don’t you?” he murmured, dragging the blade over Hotch’s collarbone, just enough to make him flinch. “Love when I do this to you.”

Hotch let out a shaky breath. “Yes-”

Foyet chuckled, pressing the cold metal just under his jaw, tilting his head up. “Of course, you do.”

Hotch’s breath hitched, his body tense, but there was no fear in his eyes. Just pure need .

“More,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “Please.”

Foyet groaned. God, he was so perfect. He ran the knife down Hotch’s chest, slow, methodical, just enough pressure to threaten , to tease .

Hotch gasped, his whole body shuddering, his hands twitching like he wanted to reach for Foyet but knew better.

“You’re shaking,” Foyet murmured, watching him intently. “You like that, don’t you?”

Hotch nodded , his breathing ragged. “Please,” he whispered again, his voice breaking.

Foyet smirked . Begging already?

He ran the knife down Hotch’s stomach, pressing just a little harder, watching as Hotch tensed, his breath coming in sharp little gasps.

“ Such a good boy,” Foyet murmured, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “Taking everything I give you. Begging for more.”

Hotch let out a shuddering whimper, his whole body trembling.

Foyet chuckled, dragging the knife up again, watching as Hotch’s skin twitched beneath it. “You’re teary,” he noted, his voice soft, almost mocking. “Is it too much?”

Hotch shook his head immediately . “No,” he whispered, desperate. “ More .”

Foyet’s smirk widened. “That’s my boy.”

Hotch let out a shuddering breath, his body tensing in anticipation.

Foyet leaned in, his lips ghosting over Hotch’s ear as he whispered, “You’re so perfect like this. Mine. ”

Hotch whined, pressing closer, his body craving more contact, more control, more of everything .

Foyet hummed in satisfaction. “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he murmured, dragging the knife over his skin one last time, watching the way Hotch shivered under his touch.

“I’ll give you everything you need.”

Chapter Text

“Good Boy”

Hotch was already on his knees before Foyet even had to ask.

It was almost instinct now—trained into him through experience, through repetition, through the unshakable knowledge that this was where he belonged . Foyet stood before him, towering, smirking, running a hand through Hotch’s hair in a way that was both possessive and teasing.

“Look at you,” Foyet murmured, his voice dripping with approval. “So eager. So obedient. You love this, don’t you?”

Hotch nodded, eyes locked on him, pupils blown wide. He was so desperate, so needy Foyet could see it in every inch of him. The way he was sitting, the way he was waiting, the way his fingers twitched as if resisting the urge to reach out on his own.

Foyet chuckled. “You’re such a good boy for me. Always so willing, so desperate to please .” His grip in Hotch’s hair tightened, tilting his head back just enough that their eyes met. “Aren’t you?”

“ Yes ,” Hotch breathed.

Foyet hummed approvingly, dragging his thumb across Hotch’s bottom lip, feeling the way it trembled under his touch. “I know you are,” he said. “Always so eager to take what I give you. Always so good for me.”

Hotch swallowed hard, his breath hitching at the praise, at the weight of Foyet’s gaze.

Foyet smiled. “Open up, sweetheart.”

And Hotch obeyed.

Immediately.

Beautifully.

Foyet’s fingers traced along Hotch’s jaw as he tilted his head just so. “That’s it,” he cooed. “Perfect. Perfect .”

Hotch shivered at the endless praise, at the way Foyet’s voice sank into something low and pleased. He lived for that approval, craved it like nothing else.

Foyet let out a pleased hum. “God, I love you like this. On your knees. Taking everything I give you. Trying so hard to be good for me.”

Hotch was struggling not that he’d ever stop, not that he’d ever pull away but Foyet could see it. The way his hands clenched against his thighs, the way he was forcing himself to take more, to keep up, to be better .

Foyet caressed his cheek. “Don’t fight it,” he murmured. “You’re doing so well. Such a good boy.”

Hotch let out a muffled sound, one that Foyet knew, without a doubt, was pure, unfiltered need .

“That’s my boy,” Foyet praised. “So desperate, so obedient. You’d do anything for me, wouldn’t you?”

Hotch nodded as best as he could .

Foyet laughed, petting his hair, rewarding his effort with soft, approving touches. “I know you would,” he murmured. “I know .”

Hotch was shaking now, clinging to every word, every touch, every ounce of Foyet’s attention like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

Foyet tilted his chin up slightly, smiling down at him. “You love this,” he mused. “Being on your knees for me. Belonging to me.”

Another nod.

Foyet leaned down slightly, brushing a kiss to Hotch’s forehead, gentle in contrast to the power he wielded over him.

“ Good boy ,” he whispered.

And Hotch shuddered .

Chapter Text

Hotch walked into the bullpen like nothing was out of the ordinary, coffee in hand, files tucked under one arm, looking as put-together as ever, except he was wearing that jacket.

Foyet’s shitty jacket.

It was unmistakable. That ugly, worn-out thing Foyet had been wearing when the team arrested him. The one that had been stuffed in an evidence locker for months before being released with the rest of his personal belongings.

And yet, there it was, on Hotch.

Morgan was the first to notice, his eyebrows shooting up as he pointed. “Uh, Hotch? That your new look?”

JJ turned, eyes widening. “Oh my God. Is that?”

“It can’t be,” Reid muttered, frowning deeply as he adjusted his satchel. “But it looks like”

Emily leaned forward, staring at Hotch. “Hotch, is that Foyet’s jacket?”

Hotch didn’t even blink. He took a slow sip of coffee, set down his files, and gave them a level stare. “No.”

Silence.

The team exchanged glances.

Morgan crossed his arms. “Hotch. We were there. That’s his jacket.”

Hotch exhaled through his nose, like he was disappointed in them. “It’s not.”

“But”

“Why would I wear Foyet’s jacket?” Hotch asked, arching a brow.

Emily squinted. “That’s what we’re wondering.”

Hotch sighed, as if this was some ridiculous misunderstanding. “It’s just a jacket.”

“But it looks exactly like his,” Reid insisted, still frowning. “Same cut, same patches—statistically, the chances of you owning an identical jacket are extremely low but that”

Hotch fixed him with a look. “Reid. Do you really think I would wear George Foyet’s jacket ?”

Reid faltered. “Well, no, but ”

Hotch just shook his head, like this was a pointless conversation, before taking another sip of coffee.

The team exchanged glances again, this time less certain.

JJ hesitated. “So… it’s not his jacket?”

“No,” Hotch said smoothly.

Morgan frowned, but now he looked unsure. “It just really looks like it.”

Hotch exhaled, tilting his head slightly. “Then maybe his jacket just looked like mine. ”

Silence.

That… almost made sense.

Reid still looked skeptical, but Emily was already second-guessing, and JJ was chewing her lip, unsure.

Hotch just stood there, looking perfectly composed, as if there was no reason to doubt him.

Morgan rubbed the back of his neck, finally sighing. “Alright. If you say so, man.”

Hotch gave a small, satisfied nod before reaching for his files. “Good. Now, if we’re done here, everyone go back to work.”

The team slowly dispersed, still looking mildly confused but no longer certain enough to argue.

Hotch smirked slightly. But only for a second. Then he was back to work. His phone buzzed in his pocket and read the texts from Foyet.

Foyet: pls tell me you didn’t wear my jacket to work

Foyet: ur wearing the jacket I was literally ARRESTED IN

Foyet: u r a menace

Foyet: a hot menace but a menace

Chapter Text

Foyet flicked ash into the tray, watching Hotch from across the room. His hoodie, Foyet’s hoodie, hung loose on Hotch’s frame, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, cigarette balanced between his fingers like he belonged here. And the truth was, hedid.

“Do you even know where your apartment keys are?” Foyet asked, smirking.

Hotch didn’t look up. “They’re in my bag.”

“Oh, so you think they’re in your bag.” Foyet stretched out on the couch, taking another drag. “When’s the last time you actually checked?”

Hotch exhaled slowly, rolling his cigarette between his fingers. “This again?”

“Yes, this again. ” Foyet gestured loosely at the apartment. “You live here, Aaron.”

Hotch shot him a flat look. “I don’t.”

Foyet let out a sharp, amused breath. “You eat here. Sleep here. Shower here.” He tilted his head. “Speaking of there’s only one towel in my bathroom now. Where the hell did mine go?”

Hotch took another drag. “I used it.”

Foyet huffed a laugh. “Exactly. You steal my towels, you steal my hoodies, and I haven’t seen you use your own damn toothpaste in months.” He leaned forward, his grin widening. “Face it, you’ve moved in. ”

Hotch didn’t answer right away. Just exhaled another slow stream of smoke, eyes flicking toward the ceiling like he was trying to ignore him.

Foyet smirked. “You don’t even deny it anymore.”

Hotch finally glanced at him, expression unreadable. “I’m not moving in.”

Foyet groaned, tilting his head back against the couch. “Oh my God, just admit you want to live with me.”

“I don’t.”

“Aaron.” Foyet grinned. “You sleep in my bed.”

“It’s a bed.”

“You shower in my bathroom.”

“It has hot water.”

“You wear my clothes. ”

“They’re comfortable.”

Foyet pointed at him. “ Exactly. ”

Hotch rolled his eyes, taking another slow drag.

Foyet sighed dramatically, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re killing me.”

Hotch smirked, just barely. “Not yet.”

Foyet grinned at him, leaning closer. “Yet,” he echoed. “So you’re saying there’s a chance.”

Hotch just exhaled and didn’t answer.

Chapter Text

Hotch barely had time to process the door clicking shut before George Foyet was on him.

It was just past midnight. The hotel room was dark, save for the dim glow from the streetlights bleeding through the curtains.

And there he was.

The man who had Hotch had spoken to earlier that day. Played the victim, smiled weakly at Hotch like he was grateful to be protected. The man who had lied to his face over and over.

Hotch knew now. He knew.

Foyet saw it in his eyes.

And he grinned.

“You figured it out,” he said, almost delighted, stepping closer, casual like they were old friends. “You’re always so smart, agent.”

Hotch inhaled through his nose, steady, controlled. “You killed them.”

Foyet cocked his head. “I kill a lot of people. You’ll have to be more specific.”

Hotch’s jaw tensed. “You got on that bus and slaughtered them.”

Foyet tsked. “Oh, please. You think I’d let you reject my deal and get away with it?”

Hotch moved.

Fast.

But Foyet was faster.

The second Hotch lunged, Foyet grabbed him, twisting his arm behind his back, shoving him hard against the wall.

Hotch grunted, struggling, but Foyet’s grip was surprisingly strong. His breath was hot against his neck, his voice low and amused.

“You’re so predictable,” Foyet murmured, lips barely brushing the shell of Hotch’s ear. “You get mad, you lash out. But deep down? You like this.”

Hotch growled, jerking his elbow back, Foyet dodged, but just barely. They crashed against the bed, grappling, punching. Foyet laughed, shoving Hotch onto his back, pinning him down with his weight.

“You love that it’s me,” Foyet continued, voice breathless, grinning down at him. “But you hate that I won.”

Hotch was panting, eyes dark, body thrumming with adrenaline and something much, much worse.

Because Foyet wasn’t wrong.

Hotch clenched his jaw. “Fuck you.”

Foyet’s grin widened. “Oh, I plan to.”

And then he was kissing him—hard, biting at his lips, yanking Hotch’s shirt off, fingers bruising against his ribs.

Hotch bit back, harder, drawing blood. Foyet only moaned, grinding down against him, hands tearing at his belt, dragging his pants down in sharp, aggressive movements.

Hotch let him.

Because this? This was incredible.

Their bodies clashed, rough and desperate. Foyet took what he wanted, shoving Hotch’s thighs apart, pushing inside without hesitation.

Hotch gasped, back arching. It hurt, fuck, it burned, but it was so good.

Foyet set a brutal pace, pressing Hotch down into the mattress, hands gripping his wrists above his head.

“You love this,” Foyet growled against his throat, dragging his teeth over his pulse. “Admit it.”

Hotch turned his head, gasping when Foyet hit deep. “Fuck. You.”

Foyet laughed breathlessly, fucking into him harder, forcing another sharp moan out of Hotch’s throat.

“God, you sound so pretty when you lose,” Foyet taunted, nipping at his jaw, fucking into him rough and relentless.

Hotch snarled, surging up, biting down on Foyet’s shoulder until he tasted blood.

Foyet groaned, thrusting harder, rutting against him like an animal.

Hotch should’ve hated this. Should’ve fought harder. Should’ve.

But he was moaning, gasping, gripping Foyet’s back, body shaking with pleasure.

Because Foyet was a killer.

And Hotch had never wanted anyone more.

Chapter Text

Foyet: Would you let me fuck you if i came over right now?

Hotch: Guess.

Foyet: you would

Hotch: Guess again.

Foyet: bullshit i know you’d let me

Foyet: you can’t resist me

Foyet i fuck you too good for that

Hotch: you talk a lot.

Foyet: you have yet to stop me

Foyet: are you in bed?

Hotch: I am actually.

Foyet: shame you’re in there all alone and lonely thinking about me

Hotch: You assume too much.

Foyet: bet ur thinking about all the times i’ve fucked you in that bed

Hotch: What if i wasn’t?

Foyet: you’d be lying

Foyet: i know you’re thinking about it

Foyet: me fucking you so hard you’re on the verge of passing out

Foyet: remember last time when you were screaming my name

(hotch takes 30 seconds to answer)

Foyet: are you touching yourself yet?

Foyet: i know you want to

Hotch: Maybe it would be easier if you were here.

Foyet: oh?

Hotch: less talking more doing.

Foyet: tell me what you’d want me to do aaron

Hotch: I think you already know.

Foyet: mhmm i have a few ideas

Chapter Text

Hotch was fully consumed in what he was doing tracing his mouth over every inch of Foyet’s bare chest, biting just to hear the sharp intake of breath, feeling the way Foyet arched into him like he couldn’t get close enough. It was gratifying, the way Foyet responded to him, the way he wanted this wanted him. He was completely lost in the moment, caught up in the heat of it, in the way Foyet felt beneath him, until-

His phone rang.

Hotch tensed immediately. The name on the screen made his stomach drop.

Derek.

Foyet, beneath him, let out a breathless laugh. “Oh, you have got to be kidding me. ”

Hotch closed his eyes for a brief second, exhaling through his nose. Then he pulled away just enough to grab the phone, answering in his most composed voice. “Hey.”

Morgan’s voice came through the line, casual and warm. “Hey, you free?”

Foyet, meanwhile, was not taking the interruption well.

Still breathless, still wrecked from everything Hotch had been doing to him moments before, he let his head fall back against the couch dramatically, groaning.

Loudly.

Hotch’s grip on the phone tightened.

Morgan hesitated. Hotch?”

Hotch pressed his palm firmly over Foyet’s mouth, pinning him down with a sharp look. “Yeah. Just,” He struggled for an excuse. “Been a long day.”

Foyet snorted against his hand.

Hotch ignored him, forcing his focus back to Morgan. “What’s up?”

Morgan sighed. “Just wanted to check up on you.”

Hotch felt Foyet’s grin against his palm.

“Oh, that’s sweet, ” Foyet tried to say against Hotch’s hand, but it was muffled nonsense.

Hotch squeezed his jaw in warning.

Morgan was still talking. “You haven’t spent much time with us lately. You doing okay?”

Hotch was doing okay. Or, at least, he had been before his phone rang. Before he was forced to push himself away from Foyet, who was still shirtless and glaring at the interruption like it had personally offended him.

Hotch sighed, forcing his voice to stay neutral. “Yeah. Just tired.”

Foyet, who could not leave him alone licked Hotch’s palm.

Hotch jerked his hand away in disgust, and Foyet took the opportunity to dramatically moan.

Loud. Obnoxiously so.

Hotch glared down at him, barely restraining the urge to strangle him.

Morgan hesitated on the other end of the line. “What was that?”

Foyet, grinning up at Hotch like the absolute menace he was, exhaled in fake exhaustion, shifting beneath him like he was very comfortable.

Hotch swore internally. “Nothing,” he said quickly. “Just—TV.”

Morgan didn’t sound entirely convinced. “What are you watching?”

Foyet grinned.

Hotch shot him a look of pure murder.

“Oh, you know,” Hotch said smoothly, “one of those crime shows. They’re so over-the-top sometimes.”

Foyet bit his lip to keep from laughing.

Morgan hummed. “Alright. Well, I’ll let you go. Just wanted to check in.”

Hotch nodded, even though Morgan couldn’t see it. “Talk later.”

As soon as he hung up, he dropped the phone onto the couch, exhaling slowly.

Foyet immediately started laughing.

“Oh, come on, ” he wheezed, voice breathless with amusement. “That was fun. You love the thrill, don’t you?”

Hotch shot him a glare. “You moaned. ”

Foyet just grinned. “And?”

Hotch dragged a hand down his face.

Foyet, meanwhile, was still sprawled beneath him, chest covered in Hotch’s marks, completely unbothered by the whole ordeal.

Actually, no. He was a little bothered. Not by the call, but by the fact that it had interrupted something he’d been very much enjoying.

He stretched lazily, looking at Hotch with way too much self-satisfaction. “I think you should make it up to me.”

Hotch gave him an unimpressed look. “ Make it up to you? ”

Foyet shrugged, unrepentant. “You did stop right when things were getting good.”

Hotch narrowed his eyes.

Foyet just smirked. “I was enjoying myself,” he added, deliberately slow, dragging a hand down his own chest. “And then your coworker called.”

Hotch exhaled sharply. “ Don’t start. ”

Foyet grinned, because he lived to start things. “I’m just saying,” he purred, tilting his head, “if you were the one getting interrupted, I’d be the one making it up to you.”

Hotch stared at him.

Foyet smiled, infuriatingly smug, stretching just enough to show off the marks Hotch had left on him. “But since it was me getting interrupted, I think it’s only fair that you, ”

Hotch cut him off by grabbing his chin and kissing him.

Foyet melted into it instantly, smugness immediately replaced with eagerness. He made a pleased sound against Hotch’s mouth, arching up to press closer, completely pleased with himself.

Hotch wasn’t sure why he put up with this.

No. That was a lie.

He knew exactly why.

Chapter Text

George smirked, his eyes dark with desire. He stepped closer to Aaron, the heat between them palpable. "You want it, don't you?"

Aaron's eyes widened, a delicious mix of fear and excitement playing across his face. "No, I don’t-"

With a swift movement, George grabbed Aaron's wrists, pinning them against the cold, concrete wall of his apartment. The room was fairly dim lit by a single, flickering bulb overhead, casting eerie shadows that danced across their bodies.

"You're mine," George growled, his voice low and menacing. "And you're going to take it."

Aaron's heart raced as he felt George's hardness pressing against him. He knew what was coming next, the rush of adrenaline that made everything feel so real. But tonight, there was something different in George's gaze, a glint that sent a shiver down his spine.

The cold metal of a knife pressed against his throat, and Aaron gulped. This was part of the game, the thrill they both craved.

"Please, don't," Aaron whimpered, his voice a perfect blend of fear and arousal.

"You're so fucking hot when you beg," George murmured, his breath hot against Aaron's ear. "But remember, You’ll take it until im done with you."

Aaron nodded, his eyes glazed over with desire. The knife remained at his throat as George's hands roamed down his body, teasing and exploring every inch. Aaron's knees trembled, his body responding to the dangerous dance of power and submission.

"Ready?" George's question hung in the air, charged with electricity.

Aaron took a deep breath, his pulse pounding in his ears, he nodded a no. A grunt managed to choke out as he felt the tip of George against his ass.

The first thrust was brutal, stealing Aaron's breath away. He felt George's cock fill him, stretching him open, claiming him. The knife remained at his throat, the sharpness a constant reminder of the power George had over him. Aaron's moan was a mix of pleasure and pain, his body arching back into George's.

"That's it," George hissed, his hips moving in a punishing rhythm. "Take it like the slut you are."

Aaron's eyes rolled back in his head, the words cutting deep, but in the best possible way. He could feel the edge approaching, the sweet release that came with their twisted play. The knife was cold, a stark contrast to the heat of George's skin.

"Stop," Aaron pleaded, his voice shaking. "I can't... I can't take it."

George just chuckled, his strokes growing more intense. "You love it, don't you? You love being mine, feeling me inside you, taking what I give."

Aaron's response was a guttural groan, his body betraying him as it moved in sync with George's. He could feel his orgasm building, his muscles tensing around George's cock. He was powerless to resist, to do anything but submit to the overwhelming sensations.

The knife never left his throat, the threat of it heightening every touch, every sensation. As George fucked him hard and rough, as the blade whispered sweet nothings against his skin, Aaron had never felt more alive.

Chapter Text

Aaron’s hands tugged at Foyet’s shirt until it bunched in his fists, his grinding growing more urgent, desperate. Foyet helped, lifting his arms just enough for Aaron to strip the shirt away and toss it blindly across the dorm room floor.

Aaron’s gaze swept down Foyet’s chest, lingering on the pale skin revealed, before crashing back into a kiss that was all teeth and heat. His hips ground down harder, almost frantic, the friction driving him wild.

Foyet’s hands held him steady, sliding down his sides, over his hips, then lower, gripping him through his jeans with enough pressure to make Aaron gasp against his mouth.

Aaron broke the kiss with a groan, biting at Foyet’s jaw, his throat, sucking marks into his skin without hesitation. His hands slid down next, fumbling at Foyet’s belt, tugging with clumsy urgency.

“Easy,” Foyet murmured, his voice a low rumble, but he didn’t stop him. He leaned up, catching Aaron’s mouth again as his own fingers moved to help, undoing zippers, tugging at denim.

Soon, they were stripped down enough, skin on skin, hard and aching, grinding together with nothing between them. Aaron groaned into the kiss, clutching at Foyet’s shoulders, his hips moving with an almost reckless pace.

But Foyet wasn’t content with just that.

He rolled them, pinning Aaron against the mattress now, hovering above him with steady control. Aaron’s hair was a mess, lips swollen from kissing, his eyes blown wide with want. Foyet drank in the sight of him, then bent to kiss him again, slower this time, deliberate, as if savoring the moment.

Aaron moaned into it, his legs already spreading, pulling Foyet down closer, wordlessly begging for more. His nails dragged down Foyet’s back, his body arching up in silent impatience.

Foyet didn’t rush. He took his time, touching, teasing, dragging his hand over every line of Aaron’s body until Aaron was trembling beneath him, until the pleas slipped past his lips, raw, needy, and desperate.

And when Foyet finally pushed inside, Aaron’s breath caught in his throat, his hands clutching at him like he’d never let go. The stretch burned, but it was good, grounding, exactly what he’d wanted.

Foyet moved slow at first, deliberate, letting Aaron adjust, savoring the way he writhed beneath him, the way he bit his lip trying to hold back sounds.

But it wasn’t long before Aaron was urging him faster, harder, his voice breaking in gasps and groans, his body meeting every thrust with hungry desperation.

The room filled with the sound of skin, of breath, of Aaron’s soft cries between the muffled soundtrack of the horror movie still playing in the background.  All that mattered was the heat, the pull, the way they fit together like this was inevitable.

Aaron came first, body tensing, his voice breaking against Foyet’s mouth as he spilled between them. Foyet followed soon after, burying himself deep with a low groan, clutching Aaron tight as the last of his control snapped.

They stayed tangled in the sheets, bodies slick with sweat, the movie long forgotten. Aaron’s breathing was shaky, his chest rising and falling against Foyet’s as if he’d just run a marathon.