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Past the Knife Point

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For some reason, Aaron Hotchner craved the knife during sex. 

He couldn’t explain it. He couldn’t explain why he adored being naked, restrained, while a knife carved hieroglyphs speaking of kinky sex, pain, and pleasure over his body, occasionally spilling blood, occasionally scarring. 

He’s not sure if he ever wanted an explanation. 

He’s sure he could profile it- he’s a profiler , for fuck’s sake- but he didn’t want to. And none of his team knew about his secret kink (at least, he didn’t think they knew. Rossi knew, but never outed his friend or confronted him about it). 

Hayley couldn’t do it. She tried it once, and it wasn’t the best experience that Hotch had, but it wasn’t the worst (far from it). She hated it, hated causing him that pain, and he understood, never asked it from her again. 

He had almost forgotten about it until he came along. 

The Boston Reaper. 

George Foyet. 

The night that he was surprised in his apartment sparked something that Hotch had long kept buried, had long kept secret from even himself. 

Foyet noticed it too, Hotch knew he had. 

After he left, Hotch was left hard and aching while struggling to survive. He would survive, because he wanted more. He craved more. His mad hunt for the man was part in wanting to make sure that he wouldn’t kill anyone again, but also so he could see if there was something more that he could do for him. 

He hadn’t had it in so long, he needed it. He got off to it, night after night. It had become an obsession, and Hotch wondered if there would come a day where his fantasy would be fulfilled. 


It was a dark and stormy night, cliche as that is, in a bar in a seedier part of DC than Hotch would normally frequent. The team had the night off, and as a result, Morgan, Prentiss, and Garcia were out at another establishment, dancing and drinking the night away. Reid had gone home to his books, and Rossi was on a date. 

That left Hotch in this bar, drinking a poorly made old fashioned as he stared at the smooth wood of the bar. Jessica had Jack for the night, and it ached Hotch to know that he wasn’t with his son, but Jessica told him that he needed to get out there, needed to blow off some steam. 

She was right, of course, but he didn’t like that she was nor did he have to admit it. 

“Fancy seeing you in a place like this, Agent Hotchner.” 

Hotch saw in his peripheral the face of George Foyet and gave a soft sigh. “Hello, Foyet.” 

“I suppose that since I’ve literally been in your guts, we can dispose of the pleasantries, Aaron,” Foyet said casually as he sat down and hailed down the bartender. “Boston lager, please.” He turned to face Hotch, but Hotch stared straight ahead at the TV screen playing a football game. 

Foyet stared at Hotch for a moment before sighing. “Aaron, we need to talk.” 

“About what?” Hotch asked, taking a sip of his old fashioned as the bartender sat the lager down in front of Foyet. 

“What happened in your apartment that night.” 

Hotch didn’t say anything. 

“I noticed, Aaron. Did you think I wouldn’t?” Foyet asked, nudging Hotch with his elbow. “And I’ve got to say, Aaron, I’m a little surprised and intrigued. I mean, I knew you were probably a kinky bastard, but not like that. ” 

Hotch tightened his grip on his glass. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said blandly. 

“Oh come now, Aaron,” Foyet turned and gave Hotch a raised brow. “You can’t fool me like that. I’m not like any of your lackeys. They couldn’t even profile this. Not unless you’ve slept with any of them?” He smirked. “Perhaps that young Dr. Reid, or maybe the built Derek Morgan. Perhaps you go after the silver fox daddy figure of David Rossi.” 

Hotch turned to face his nemesis, the Hotchner Glare in full effect. Foyet laughed. 

“I’m not scared of that look, Aaron. Not when I’ve seen you for what you truly are.” 

“And what am I, Foyet?” Hotch asked firmly. 

Foyet leaned in close, close enough for Hotch to kiss him. “That you’re a needy, greedy little pain slut who just craves for the blade just as much as a serial killer. Are you also impotent, Aaron? Or is it just those who stab that you believe to be such?” 

Hotch inhaled sharply, arousal spiking through his veins at what Foyet just told him. 

Hotch inhaled sharply, arousal spiking through his veins at what Foyet just said to him. 

Foyet smirked. "You're fuckin’ needy for something, that's for certain, Aaron. The darker side of life. I get it. You don't fuckin’ allow yourself that. At all. And I can understand why, especially with that fuckin’ kid of yours. But Aaron, it's not fuckin’ healthy to keep these all bottled up inside. You know that. What if one day you just… fuckin’ snap?" Foyet snapped his fingers and something inside of Hotch also snapped. 

"Your place or mine?" he asked. 

"Won't your team be worried?" Foyet asked. 

"No," Hotch said. "They're all busy tonight." 

Foyet smirked. "Last time we did yours, so tonight we'll do mine. Now finish your drink, Aaron." 

Hotch finished the last finger of his old fashion in one swallow and stared at Foyet. He couldn't believe that he was doing it. 

At least he could blame it on the alcohol. If he needed to. 

Foyet finished his own drink, paid, and then they walked out together. The tension between them was thick, filled with electric desire. 

"My place is about a block away," Foyet said, taking off down a street. Hotch followed, pulling his coat around him tighter to keep out the chill of the night and to better hide the growing bulge in his slacks. 

They entered Foyet's apartment, and after Hotch toed off his shoes and took off his overcoat, he was pinned to the door of the apartment by Foyet, who was now twirling the end of Hotch's tie in his fingers. 

Hotch exhaled, the breath knocked out of him and Foyet smirked. 

"Oh my, Aaron, do we like being tossed around a little bit?" he purred. 

Hotch swallowed and Foyet gently tugged on the tie, pulling Hotch closer to him. 

"It's okay, Aaron, you can tell me," Foyet coaxed. "No need to be shy. I can tell, but I want you to tell me." 

"Why?" Hotch asked softly. 

"Because, I like hearing it," Foyet murmured. "Now, give me a kiss, Aaron. Be fuckin’ nice to your host." 

Hotch leaned in and gave Foyet a soft kiss, not drawing it out or anything. Just a brief, soft kiss before he slowly withdrew. 

"Oh no, Aaron," Foyet laughed softly. "That was a nice one, I'll gr ant you that, but I want a real kiss. I want you to kiss me like you mean it. Do you understand?" The grip on Hotch's tie tightened and another yank was given. 

Hotch swallowed and nodded. 

"Good, do it," Foyet commanded. It was a clear order, and Hotch instantly balked at it. 

“I told you to fuckin’ do something, Aaron,” Foyet murmured. “I know you’re so used to giving the orders, but you’re in my fuckin’ realm now. You will do what I say, or there’ll be punishments. Do you fuckin’ understand?” 

Hotch gave Foyet a surprised look, and the Boston Reaper gave a laugh. “Oh, Aaron. Come on, now. You do it too. You’re just used to being the ringmaster instead of the caged lion.” Foyet pressed up against Hotch, letting the FBI agent feel his erection. “Time for someone else to take fucking control. Now kiss me, Aaron.” 

Aaron finally gave in, leaning in and giving Foyet a long, desperate kiss, tapping into his hidden desires and needs as he nipped on the man’s lower lip. 

“That’s it, Aaron,” Foyet growled in a pleased tone, tugging Hotch closer and kissing him back even harder. Hotch gripped at Foyet’s jacket to keep himself on balance, letting Foyet’s legs come to a rest on either side of his thighs and let him rub against him. 

“So good for me,” Foyet praised, and that should not turn Hotch on as much as it does, but it did, and he made a needy noise that welled up in the back of his throat. 

“What, you like it when I say nice things about you?” Foyet chuckled. “Oh Aaron, you’re fucking precious.” He smirked and took a fistful of Hotch’s hair. 

Hotch gasped and instinctively dropped to his knees. 

“So good,” Foyet praised and knelt in front of him. “Let go of that stuffy, uptight persona that you’ve got there, Aaron. There’s no need to hide any of that from me. You can be free here, Aaron. I’ll take care of you.” He let go of Hotch’s hair and Hotch looked at the other man with large eyes that spoke volumes about how much he wanted- and, in a way, needed- what Foyet was giving him. 

“I just need you to do what I say, Aaron. You can do that for me, right? I would hate for you to be punished when you so obviously need this.” Foyet smiled, smoothed out Hotch’s hair. “Tell me that you’re going to be my good little pain slut tonight.” 

“Using those words?” Hotch squeaked out, something that he’ll deny even on his deathbed. His face turned bright red. 

Foyet laughed softly, cupping Hotch’s cheek in a moment of faux tenderness. “Yes, Aaron, in those words.” He rubbed his thumb against Hotch’s heated cheek. “My, my, my, Aaron. You’ve got quite the blush on you. It’s kind of cute, actually.” 

Hotch tried to summon his infamous Hotchner Glare, but he came up short. His face was too flushed for it to be effective. 

Foyet smirked. “Come on, Aaron. Say those words for me, and we can continue on with our little playtime, hmm?” 

Hotch sighed and closed his eyes, a blush still painted vividly on his face. “I’m…” he started to say, “I’m going to behave tonight for you.” 

“Pretty words enough, but they’re not the ones that I told you to say,” Foyet murmured. He grabbed Hotch’s tie and gave it a hard yank. Hotch gave a choked cry and opened his eyes wide to stare at his lover du noir.

“Use the words that I told you to use, Aaron,” Foyet commanded. “Don’t try to be fucking cute and change them again.” 

Hotch swallowed and gave a nod, lowering his eyes from Foyet’s intense gaze. “I’m going to be your good little pain slut tonight,” he whispered softly. 

“I’m sorry, what was that?” Foyet hummed warmly, tugging on Hotch’s tie lightly. “Speak up, Aaron.” 

“I’m going to be your good little pain slut tonight,” Hotch said a little louder. 

“Mmm, good boy,” Foyet praised softly. “Be proud of what you are, Aaron.” He tugged on the tie again. “Follow me and get undressed when we get to where we’re going. All the way down.” He let the tie go. “Leave the tie on, though. I like being in control of it.” He winked. 

Hotch groaned and slowly stood up with Foyet’s help before following him to the serial killer’s bedroom. He gave himself a moment to look around before Foyet’s clearing throat cut through his thoughts. He began to undress, watching him as his shoes, socks, and belt came  off. 

Foyet, meanwhile, had crossed over to the nightstand and was pulling out a couple of different knives. Hotch observed him and saw a butterfly knife and a Bowie knife come out and rest on the nightstand. He felt his cock immediately harden as he loosened his tie enough to allow himself the room to remove his crisp white button down. 

“I bet that you’re a squirmer, and that’s a dangerous thing for this,” Foyet purred. “So give me your handcuffs for me to use on you. I’m all fresh out of rope.” 

Hotch nodded and reached into his slacks, pulling the silver cuffs out of his pocket. He handed them over to Foyet and removed his slacks, now standing in nothing but his tie, boxers, and wife beater. 

“Thank you, Aaron,” Foyet smiled. “Key?” 

“On my belt,” he replied as he removed his boxers, his breathing heavy. 

“It can stay there, then,” Foyet said dismissively before he yanked Hotch forward by his tie. Hotch barely managed to catch himself before cold metal briefly kissed his skin. Cold air hit his chest in full force as his wife beater hung loosely on his shoulders, cut down the center. 

“Oops,” Foyet said unapologetically. “Get it off, Aaron, and lay down on the bed for me. Hands above your head, legs spread open wide. Bend your knees and put your feet flat on the bed. You can do that for me, right Aaron?” 

“Yes,” Hotch said softly. 

“Mmm, good boy. Do it for me, then.” 

“I need you to let go of my tie first, then, please,” Hotch mentioned as he slipped off his now ruined wife beater. 

“Oh, I do love how you can sound so polite and yet such a condescending bastard at the same time,” Foyet smirked. 

“Please,” Hotch tried again. “I can’t be good for you if I’m unable to follow your orders.” 

Foyet chuckled, but he let go of Hotch’s tie. Hotch slowly got onto the bed and assumed the position that the serial killer had requested of him, getting as comfortable as he could and working on relaxing his mind. 

He had to relax his mind, because otherwise, there was a small, rational part of his brain that was screaming at him, asking him what the fuck are you doing, Aaron Michael Hotchner?

The response that he gave to himself in order to quiet down the screaming was I am preventing a senseless murder.

That wasn’t the whole reason, of course, and Hotch would be lying to himself if he told himself that this was the reason, but it was partly the truth. If he had rejected Foyet and his advances, Foyet may’ve murdered someone who looked like Hotch –or, worse, gone after Hayley and Jack. His dignity (and an orgasm or two) was worth one less murder. It was a small price to pay in his eyes.

As soon as Hotch had deemed himself comfortable, and probably even before then, he was handcuffed to the bedframe and Foyet was straddling him, the butterfly knife in his hand and a dark, aroused glint in his eyes. 

“You’re so pretty like this,” Foyet purred, “and all mine.” The Boston Reaper was now shirtless, his own scars from so many years ago on full display for the now helpless profiler. Hotch remembered seeing them fresh. The knife shone in the low light of the bedroom and if Hotch wasn’t hard prior to now, he sure was now. “Mine to please and to torture.” 

Hotch wet his lips, and gave a low whine of want. 

“I know what you need, Aaron,” Foyet soothed. “Just relax for me, okay? It feels so much better if you do.” 

Hotch strained to meet the knife, the handcuffs rattling against the bed, his back arching. Foyet gave a low laugh and smirked down at him. 

“Desperate thing, aren’t you?” Foyet teased. “Tell me, Aaron, how long has it been since you’ve been under the knife?” 

“Sexually or surgically?” Hotch quipped, giving a rough exhale as Foyet’s hand gently but firmly pressed him back into the bed. 

Foyet gave a low, deep laugh. “You’re a delight. Sexually, Aaron.” 

“Fifteen years,” Hotch replied. 

“That’s a wicked long time,” Foyet said with a low whistle. 

Hotch nodded in agreement at that, closing his eyes. “Yeah,” he said.

“Don’t worry, Aaron,” Foyet promised, “I’ll give you a night to remember. Well,” he grinned, Hotch could tell by the way his tone shifted, “another night to remember.” 

The tip of the knife pressed gently against Hotch’s chest, and he froze in order to control his breathing. The tip was cold against his heated skin and it was sharp. It was perfect.

“Oh, Aaron,” Foyet murmured softly. “That’s a good boy for me. Can you continue to remain still for me while I fuckin’ engrave you?” 

Hotch wet his lips again before giving a slow nod. “Yes,” he said softly, a lot softer than Foyet. 

“I’m sorry, Aaron, I didn’t hear you,” Foyet said. “Speak up, and open your eyes for me.” 

Hotch slowly blinked his eyes open, his gaze travelling up the edge of the knife, then the handle before he met his eyes. “Yes.” 

“There we go, don’t be shy,” Foyet smiled. 

Then the knife moved, the tip smoothly sliding down the length of Hotch’s sternum. He gasped, then worked to remain silent. His skin wasn’t being cut (yet), but it felt like it and as much as Hotch wanted to sound like, as one ex-lover so eloquently put it, a wanton whore, he didn’t want him to lose sight of the man he was sharing a bed with. He didn’t want to forget that he was actively engaging in sexual relations with the Boston Reaper. 

“Don’t hold back those pretty noises, Aaron,” Foyet murmured. “You’re here for pleasure, for enjoyment. There’s no need for you to still be so prim and proper right now.”

“I’m not being prim and proper,” Hotch protested as he lowered his gaze to the knife, the tip now resting at the edge of his breastbone. 

“Yes, you are,” Foyet laughed. “You’ve always been a fucking uptight, upstanding man, and I understand, Aaron. You hear ‘still’ and put ‘silent’ with it.” The knife traveled back up in the same linear path it took downwards, coming to a rest in the hollow of Hotch’s throat. “I just don’t want you to fucking squirm, and I want to hear you. Make as much noise as you need to, I’m the only one fucking hearing them. Understand?” 

Hotch took a moment to reply as pleasure-pain overloaded his brain, robbing him of speech briefly. “Yes,” he managed to groan. 

“That’s my good boy.” The knife moved again, tracing where it had already been. This time, Hotch didn’t dare hold back the moan that had welled up in his throat. 

“There we go,” Foyet said, now tracing the outline of Hotch’s ribs with the butterfly knife. “Let pain and pleasure take over, Aaron. Give in to the knife.” 

That was the last bit of permission that he needed, and Hotch let out a cry as the blade proceeded to nick the sensitive skin just underneath his arm. The pain was brief, but the rush of pleasure that came with it and lingered was worth it. 

“Well, that was a happy fucking accident, hmm?” Foyet chuckled as the knife slid along the underside of Hotch’s collarbone. “Sorry about that, didn’t mean to nick you.” 

Hotch gave a whine, resisting the urge to rock his hips, to feel the painful friction of denim against his naked cock. The smell of blood permeated the air from the paper cut like wound, reminding them that they’re dangerously playing with sharp objects and that it takes less than a pound of pressure to cut open skin. 

Hotch didn’t care about the dangers of his secret kink. He never did, but this time, it was even more exhilarating. Maybe it’s because he’s letting a serial killer- one who has already tried to murder him before, mind- be the one in control of the situation. 

And maybe that was also a part of the appeal. Foyet knew intimately how the knife worked, having used it for his kills and obviously for pleasure before, and the fact that he had already tried to kill Hotch. How was he supposed to top the idea that a man who could’ve killed him- with his own kink- was now bringing him undeniable pleasure? This was going to star in his solo sessions for months, if not years. 

He continued to resist rocking his hips, whining as Foyet slid the knife around his torso, arms, and neck, even pressing the tip into the part just underneath his chin. 

“God, you’re beautiful when you let go, Aaron,” Foyet purred as he looked down into Hotch’s eyes. His free hand slipped down to grab the agent’s cock and give it a firm squeeze. “You could cum like this, couldn’t ya?” 

“Yes!” Hotch gave a cry of need. “Sir, please-” 

Foyet’s eyes darkened at the use of the honorific, and he smirked down at Hotch. “Oh, aren’t you a fuckin’ delight?” he murmured. “You know, Aaron, I think we would’ve made a good duo. In another life.” 

Foyet could be right. Both of them were ruthless in their pursuits, didn’t let anyone stand in their way, and both of them probably breached various types of protocol so many times, there’s files of unheard disciplinaries stacked up in an office somewhere. And with this idea that in another life, whether Foyet was an agent or Hotch was a serial killer, that they would have this kind of interaction… Hotch couldn’t help but nod in agreement, his mouth dry. 

Foyet’s knife traced the outside of the wound that went the deepest in Hotch, the one that nearly took his life away. Hotch met the killer’s gaze head on, his breathing heavy. 

“Mind if a little more blood is spilt tonight?” Foyet asked casually. “I mean, I’ll probably do it whether or not you say yes, but I figured I’d be a polite man and ask.” 

Hotch nodded his permission, then hissed as Foyet oh so carefully slid the knife down the half-healed scar. Blood bubbled forth, further staining the scent of the room with copper notes and Hotch couldn’t hold back. The pain, the dance, the sensations, feeling utterly vulnerable- he came, came with a shout and a cry as he covered Foyet’s jeans, the knife, the hand, his stomach with his release. 

“Fuckin’ hell, Aaron,” Foyet cursed, watching as Hotch’s body spasmed beneath him, his cock jerking before settling down into a halfhard state. “That’s fuckin’ hot. You’re a fuckin’ treasure, ya know that? You’re fuckin-” Foyet was shoving the zipper down and nearly ripping the button off of his pants, resting the knife on Hotch’s stomach as he did so. 

Hotch wasn’t sure what to expect when the Boston Reaper pulled out his cock, but he wasn’t expecting the large, thick, and veiny specimen that came forth. He jerked on the handcuffs, wanting to touch, to taste, to force inside of him. 

Foyet noticed his eagerness as he took himself in hand, stroking himself quickly. “Another time, perhaps,” he promised, and fuck, would Hotch do this again? 

He had to tell himself that yes, he would, if he could get away with it. As a way to keep his team safe. As a way to keep his family safe. 

As a way to get this need out of him. 

Foyet tipped his head back as his strokes became rougher. He then removed his hand from his cock and ran it through the mess of cum and blood on Hotch’s body, being sure to press the knife down. Hotch whined as he watched the other man use the combination to stroke himself quicker, watched as a small river slid down the killer’s cock and onto his ballsack. 

Would he let me lick it off one day? Hotch couldn’t help but think, shuddering as another image took place- that of Foyet holding him down to the bed, knife to his throat, telling him to be a good fuckin’ agent and be fuckin’ quiet, you hear? Don’t make a fuckin’ noise, or your son won’t have a daddy anymore and fucking him. 

His cock gave a valiant twitch.
“Ah, to be fuckin’ young again,” Foyet chuckled. “Gonna fuckin’ cum all over ya, Aaron.” 

“Please,” Hotch whispered through cracked lips. 

Foyet growled and came, adding to the mess on Hotch’s body and Hotch felt his body go lax as the encounter ended. Salt and copper and the overall scent of sex was thick in the air as Foyet slouched and looked down at Hotch with an overall predatory grin. 

“Do you fuckin’ know how fuckin’ easy it would be for me to kill you right now?” he asked. 

“Fairly,” Hotch said, catching his breath. 

“Mm, good thing I’m too lazy now,” Foyet said. “That was fuckin’ wicked.” He got up and walked over to Hotch’s slacks. Finding the cuff key, he walked back over to Hotch and undid the cuffs. “Get dressed now, except-” He slipped his fingers into the knot on Hotch’s tie and undid it, pulling it off. It was stained in their combined cum and Hotch’s blood, and Foyet smirked. “I’ll be keeping this, Aaron. As a fuckin’ reminder for me of the time I made you cum with just a few fuckin’ touches and a fuckin’ knife.” 

Hotch shuddered. He had gone down into his space without realizing it, and he knew right now was critical for him not to drop. 

He had no one to turn with this. 

“Get dressed, Aaron,” Foyet purred. “Go home to your apartment, and don’t fuckin’ forget who fuckin’ gave you the best orgasm of your life.” 

Hotch nodded dumbly and did exactly that. 

When he left Foyet’s apartment ten minutes later, the nick under his arm pained him and the open wound in his chest now was bleeding more sluggishly. He could still feel the knife all over him as he walked back to the bar to get his car, feeling dazed and lost in his thoughts as he wondered what the repercussions of being in bed with the Boston Reaper was going to do to his psyche and to his sex life. 

Because Foyet was right. 

And he hated him for that, and hated himself for being so weak.