Hi! I saw that your requests are open and I was wondering if you could write an Aaron Hotchner x reader fic inspired by the TikTok trend “How long till my FBI husband catches me?”—similar to the “how long till my police husband catches me in a foot pursuit” trend. Thank you!
Catch me if you can | [A.H]
Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x fem!Reader
WC: 3.5k
Warnings: Fluff, TikTok trend, 2 Y/N's, reader is athletic enough to not be too out of breath from running away for the approx 20 seconds she was running for, hair is long enough to be tucked behind your ears, hugs and kisses.
Summary: You see a TikTok trend that you really want Hotch to do with you, so you get Jack on your side, pestering him about it until eventually he agrees and does the damn video.
A/N: The things I have googled for this fic are so silly that my cookies will, from now on, show me American food trends and metric to imperial conversions based on realistic running lengths in 3 seconds.
It all began innocently enough one evening when Hotch came home after a long case. He had barely gotten inside the house, still in his suit, looking exhausted as ever, but relieved to be back with you and Jack after another case solved.
You were curled up on the couch under a blanket, mindlessly scrolling through TikTok—which had become a guilty pleasure of yours—while Jack finished his homework at the coffee table. And every few minutes, you’d let out a snort of laughter at yet another video of a wife or girlfriend running from their police officer partner in a foot chase, giving themselves a slight head start before getting dramatically “caught.”
Hotch loosened his tie in the kitchen, pouring himself a cup of coffee—hoping it could keep him awake, at least until bedtime—when you finally couldn’t contain your excitement any longer.
You hopped up from the couch, blanket trailing behind you like a cape, and marched to him in the kitchen.
“You have to see this,” you said, thrusting your phone at him, making it sound like you were about to show him something terrible you read in the news.
He took it with a skeptical glance, but watched the short clip of a woman sprinting across a park, her cop husband counting to five before taking off and scooping her up in mereseconds.
The comments were full of heart emojis and ‘this is goals,’ and ‘congrats 🥲’
Hotch handed the phone back to you without a word, trying his hardest not to indulge you too much—because he knew where this would eventually go—but you caught the faintest hint of amusement in his eyes.
“It’s cute, right? Harmless fun. They’re calling it the Foot Pursuit Challenge.”
He sipped his coffee, peeking at you over the rim of his mug, and raised both eyebrows. “It’s definitely… something.”
You leaned against the counter, grinning. “We should do it!”
“No.”
Just like that. Flat, immediate, classic Hotchner move from work.
But you weren’t deterred. He was forgetting that you weren’t one of his agents, that you weren’t so easily discouraged by having your ideas shot down as his subordinates.
You’d been married to Hotch long enough to know that “no” was rarely the final answer when it came to your ideas—especially if said ideas were something that made you or Jack happy in the long run.
Phase one of Operation Convince Aaron to do the video kicked off the very next morning, right in the heart of breakfast-making and getting ready for school and work.
Jack was standing on a chair at the counter, carefully pouring his favorite sugary cereal into a bowl—how you and Hotch kept falling for his puppy dog eyes in the cereal aisle was still a mystery to both of you—his tongue poking out in concentration as a few pieces inevitably spilled onto the countertop.
Hotch sat at the dining table, unfolded newspaper spread wide in front of him—actual newsprint, crinkling with every turn of the page. You would’ve just read the news on your phone if it were you. But he was stubbornly old-school that way, insisting on the feel of real paper despite everyone else scrolling on their devices.
You carried two bowls of oatmeal to the table and slid one right in front of him. As you did, you leaned in just a touch closer than necessary and murmured, low enough that Jack might not catch every word but loud enough to plant the seed, "Imagine how fast you'd catch me if we did that. The video would absolutely break the internet."
Hotch didn't even glance up from the finance section. His voice was once again flat and resolute. "Not happening."
Jack's head snapped up from his cereal pour, milk sloshing dangerously close to the rim of his bowl. His eyes lit up with pure, unfiltered eight-year-old curiosity. "Catch you? Like tag? Can I play too?"
You seized the moment, turning to Jack with an enthusiastic grin while drizzling a little bit of honey over your oatmeal. "Oh, it's this super fun game, Daddy and I could play. I'd run away from him in a large field, maybe even the soccer field where you practice, and Daddy would chase me down. Kind of like cops and robbers, but way more exciting because it's for grown-ups."
Jack's eyes went comically wide—cartoon comically wide—his spoon frozen halfway to his mouth. He bounced a little in his chair, cereal forgotten. "Whoa! Dad, you're really fast! Like superhero fast! You'd totally win in, like, two seconds."
Hotch finally looked up from the newspaper just enough for his eyes to meet yours. It was that look—the one you'd seen a hundred times before. The narrowed eyes, the slight tightening of his jaw, the silent message screaming: You're playing dirty, pitting my own son against me, and you know it.
You met his glare with the picture of wide-eyed innocence, batting your lashes as you slid the honey bottle across the table toward him, knowing he was boring and would eat his oatmeal plain—yuck.
"What? Just hypothetically speaking," you said sweetly, before turning back to your breakfast with a barely suppressed smirk. Phase one was officially underway.
Phase two of Operation Convince Aaron to do the video unfolded over the next several days like a carefully orchestrated siege, every moment thoughtfully planned out and designed to wear down his defenses without ever looking like an outright attack.
It started small. While prepping dinner one evening, you left your phone propped against the fruit bowl on the kitchen island, volume turned just high enough to carry into the living room.
A compilation of the challenge played on loop—clip after clip of women sprinting across backyards, beaches, and parks, giggling breathlessly as their husbands closed the gap in seconds, scooping them up into triumphant, spinning hugs.
Hotch walked in from the garage, wiping his hands on an old, oily rag, and paused mid-step when he heard the unmistakable sound of a woman shrieking with laughter as she was caught.
He glanced at the screen, then at you innocently chopping vegetables, and shook his head before disappearing down the hall.
You caught the way his eyes lingered for half a second longer than necessary—Maybe mulling the idea over for once.
The next night, during Jack’s bedtime routine, you pulled up “the funniest ones” on your tablet—carefully curated, of course.
You sat on the edge of Jack’s bed, the two of you huddled together under his dinosaur blanket, howling at a woman who dramatically dove into a pile of leaves to escape, only to be gently tackled and rolled around in her husband’s arms.
Jack’s giggles echoed down the hallway, impossible to ignore. And Hotch lingered just outside the door, pretending to check emails on his phone—because you were supposed to be reading bedtime stories, and not watching videos—but you saw his mouth twitch into the faintest smile when Jack declared, “That guy is so strong! Just like you, Dad!”
The real precision strike came on Wednesday. You waited until you knew he’d be alone in his office, eating a sandwich at his desk between meetings, while scribbling away at backed-up paperwork.
You sent him a single video—no text, just the clip. It was one of the sweeter ones making the rounds on the app: a man dressed in full uniform in a park giving his wife a full twenty-second head start. She bolted across the grass in a sundress—not the smartest choice for top speed, you thought—hair flying, laughing before he even started moving.
He took off at an easy lope, closed the distance effortlessly and quickly, and when he caught her around the waist, he didn’t stop. Instead, he spun her in slow circles like they were slow dancing to music in their kitchen, both of them breathless and beaming.
You watched the “delivered” turn to “read” and waited.
His reply came five minutes later: Stop it.
You took the time it took to reply as a win, because he couldn’t be as against it as he implied, because then he would’ve replied the second he read the message.
You sent back nothing but a red heart and winking emoji… followed immediately by another video.
Phase three—full weaponization of Jack—began in earnest by day four.
Jack—bless his enthusiastic little heart—became the most effective catalyst imaginable. It started at breakfast: “Dad, when are we gonna play that running game (Y/N) told me about?”
By lunchtime, it had escalated to, “Dad, can I hold the phone and film it? I promise I’ll be super steady!”
And by dinner, full-on pleading: “Daaaad, pleeease? She said you’d be the coolest dad on all of TikTok. Like, the coolest ever.”
Hotch held out for exactly one more day under the combined assault of his wife and son.
He was grumbling more, deflecting with increasing desperation, but you could see the cracks forming—every time Jack asked, Hotch’s refusal came a little softer, a little slower, and a little more undetermined.
Friday night sealed it.
You’d gone all out for dinner. Perfectly seared ribeyes, roasted potatoes, and those garlicky green beans that he pretended weren’t his favorite but always finished first.
Jack had come home from school clutching a piece of construction paper folded in half like a sacred relic.
During quiet time, he’d drawn the three of you in a sunny field. Stick-figure Hotch with spiky hair and a huge grin, enormous arms outstretched as he caught stick-figure you mid-run—complete with little motion lines and hearts—while tiny stick-figure Jack stood off to the side holding what was clearly meant to be a phone—definitely looking more like a flat screen TV size-wise—filming the whole thing. He’d even written in careful block letters across the top: “BEST DAD CATCHES (Y/N)!!!”
When Hotch got home late from a case the team was working in D.C, tired and rumpled, he found the drawing taped proudly to his closed office door at Jack-eye-level.
He stood there for a moment, just looking at it.
Then he came into the living room, where you and Jack were curled up on the couch under a blanket together, watching yet another challenge video—this one featuring a husband who let his wife almost get to the tree line before sprinting and catching her just in time.
Jack was narrating the whole thing excitedly. “See? He gave her a super long head start and still got her!”
Hotch leaned against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, tie loosened, suit jacket off, watching the two of you laugh together.
Finally, he let out a deep, long-suffering sigh. One of those ones that started in his chest and carried the weight of total surrender during the exhale.
“Fine.”
You and Jack both froze mid-laugh.
You turned slowly, afraid to breathe. “Wait… really?”
Hotch pointed a finger at you, expression stern but eyes betraying him with that familiar spark of reluctant amusement. “One take. No Jack in the video—we blur him or crop him or whatever you have to do if he ends up being slightly in frame. We film it somewhere away from the house. And if you post the video and even a tiny bit of the neighbourhood we live in shows, I swear I’m deleting TikTok from every phone, tablet, and laptop in this house. And blocking access to it on the WI-FI. Permanently.”
Jack launched off the couch like a rocket, barreling into Hotch’s legs and wrapping his arms around them in the fiercest hug his small body could manage—not even caring that he basically was banned to only being the cameraman. “Yes! Thank you, Dad! You’re the best!”
You rose more slowly, heart thudding with victory, and walked over to him. Sliding your arms around his neck, you pressed close, feeling the tension in his shoulders ease the moment you touched him.
“You’re the best husband ever,” you murmured against his ear. “You know that, right?”
He made a low grumbling sound—something about being a complete pushover and how the two of you had him wrapped around your fingers—but his arms came around your waist immediately, strong and warm, pulling you in until there was no space left between you.
“You love it,” you whispered, brushing a soft kiss just below his jaw.
He didn’t argue. Just held you a little tighter, the faintest smile curving against your temple as he whispered. “Maybe I do, or maybe I know of other ways you can make it up to me.”
Meanwhile, Jack continued to cheer triumphantly at hip height.
Saturday morning came, and for one, the BAU hadn’t been called away on a case—yet.
Jack was vibrating in his booster seat the entire drive out to the soccer field near your house. He was clutching your phone like it was the most important job in the world. And kept practicing his “director voice” in the backseat, complete with dramatic pauses. “And… action! Take one… rolling… quiet on the set!” You had no idea where he had learned those things, but his excitement was contagious; even Hotch couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he drove.
When he pulled into the empty gravel lot and cut the engine, he turned in his seat to face both of you, expression serious, almost as if he was about to send two agents into a known ambush. “Ground rules,” he began firmly. “Ten-second head start. I count out loud, slowly. No running toward the street, no trees, no uneven ground—nothing dangerous. And when I catch you,” his eyes locked on yours, “no dramatic flailing or twisting that could actually get you hurt. I mean it.”
You brought two fingers to your forehead in an exaggerated salute, trying your hardest not to burst into laughter. “Yes dad, sir, Unit Chief Hotchner, sir.”
He rolled his eyes so hard you swore you could hear them turning in their sockets, but the smile finally broke through. He couldn’t hide it anymore.
You all climbed out. Jack immediately claimed his spot on the sideline, like a seasoned cinematographer, phone held steady in both hands.
He even adjusted the angle twice, muttering to himself about “getting the whole field on camera.”
You bounced lightly on your toes at the ‘starting line’ you’d mentally drawn, pretending to warm up for your sprint.
Hotch looked unfairly good in dark jeans that fit just right, and a quarter-zip that stretched across his shoulders and chest in all the best ways, sleeves pushed up to his forearms—he absolutely knew what he had been doing as he got dressed, knowing this exact look would distract you enough for the chase to be over quickly.
The morning light caught the subtle strands of silver at his temples, and the relaxed set of his jaw made him look younger, lighter.
Casual Hotch—away from the weight of the world—was always your absolute favorite look on him.
Jack lifted the phone. “Ready? Okay… three, two, one... ACTION!”
Hotch’s voice rang out clear and steady across the empty field. “One.”
You bolted.
Arms pumping wildly, legs flying, you leaned into the comedy of it from the very first stride. Hair already whipping loose from its elastic, laughter bubbling up uncontrollably.
The grass felt alive under your sneakers, air rushing into your lungs.
“Two… three…”
You risked a quick glance back. Hotch hadn’t moved yet—just stood there with his hands casually in his pockets, watching you with that fond, indulgent half-smile that turned your insides to liquid even from ten yards away.
“Four… five… six…”
You pushed harder, aiming for the distant white goalpost like it was the finish line of the Olympics.
Your heartbeat thundered in your ears, joy more than exertion at this point.
“Seven… eight… nine…”
A dramatic gasp for effect. “You’re not even trying yet!” You yelled back, well aware that the phone wouldn’t catch it, but he would.
He rolled his eyes. “Ten.”
And then he moved.
It was unreal—like a switch flipped—no wind-up, no playful jog, just pure, efficient, predatory speed. Long, powerful strides that ate up the distance with terrifying speed. The gap between you shrank faster than physics should even allow.
You let out a shriek that echoed across the field. “No fair! You’re too fast! This is an abuse of federal training and resources!”
Desperate for a few more seconds of glory, you zigzagged sharply, then threw in the most ridiculous spin move you’d copied from a viral clip—arms out, one leg kicked high, nearly losing your balance in the process as you stumbled in the opposite direction.
It bought you exactly two extra seconds.
Strong arms banded around your waist from behind, lifting you off the ground as if you weighed nothing and weren’t struggling.
You kicked your legs in mock outrage, laughing so hard you could barely breathe, while he executed one smooth, gentle twirl—full circle, your back to his chest—the world spinning in a blur of blue sky and green grass. Then he lowered you both carefully, twisting at the last moment so he took every bit of impact on his back, you landing safely straddling his lap, hands braced on his chest.
Your hair had come completely undone around your face. You were breathless more from laughter than the run, cheeks flushed, heart racing.
“Got you,” he murmured, voice low, the sound rumbling through his chest under your palms. One large hand came up slowly, fingers brushing the messy strands from your eyes before tucking them gently behind your ear.
“That was barely twenty seconds total!” you protested weakly, poking his chest. “You made me look ridiculous out there.”
He smirked—actually smirked—eyes crinkling at the corners. “You managed that all on your own.”
Jack came barreling over, phone held high like a trophy. “I GOT IT ALL! The spin was SO COOL! Did you see the spin, Dad? It was awesome!”
The three of you collapsed together right there in the middle of the field—Jack diving into the dogpile with zero regard for aim, all of you tangled in a heap of limbs and laughter until your sides ached and tears streamed from the corners of your eyes.
When you finally caught your breath, you migrated to the big oak at the edge of the field. Jack launched into a frame-by-frame narration of his directorial choices, gesturing wildly.
You watched the footage together four times in a row—pausing at your comically dramatic start, rewinding Hotch’s impossibly smooth sprint, slow-motioning the mid-air spin, zooming in on the gentle landing. Every replay sent Jack into fresh fits of laughter.
“It’s perfect,” you declared finally, leaning into Hotch’s side, head resting on his shoulder. He had one arm draped comfortably around you, the other wrapped around Jack, who was nestled against his dad’s chest like it was the safest place in the world—which it was.
Hotch’s lips brushed your temple, voice soft against your skin. “Post it if you really want to.” He smiled. Although he was ‘giving you permission’ to post it, you knew he was just as pleased with the result as you were.
“Already planned,” you assured him, tilting your face up to meet his eyes. “Just us and laughter. Text overlay: ‘How long till my FBI husband catches me?” You spread your hands out in the air, as if framing a headline.
Jack yawned, snuggling deeper into Hotch’s side. “Can we do it again next weekend? I wanna be the runner this time.”
Hotch groaned dramatically, dropping his head back against the tree trunk. “We’ll… negotiate. But no filming this time.”
You grinned, knowing full well that was code for yes.
Later that evening, after Jack was tucked in with stories and kisses and one more replay of “the best video ever,” the house finally fell quiet.
You sat cross-legged on the couch in the soft glow of your phone, editing the video, adding a gentle blur to Jack’s excited dash at the end, layering music that swelled just right at the catch.
You added the text overlay in a simple white font, then hit upload before you could second-guess it.
By morning, it had exploded in the challenge hashtag. Notifications poured in as you sipped your coffee. “The SPIN took me OUT 😭😂,” “FBI husbands are built different fr,” “This is the sweetest one yet!! my heart,” “Tell me you feel safe without telling me you feel safe.” “OMG look at the way he’s looking at her when they’re on the ground.”
Hotch wandered in still half-asleep, hair adorably tousled. He came up behind you without a word, arms sliding around your waist, chest warm against your back, chin resting atop your head as he peered at the screen.
“Regretting your life choices yet?” you asked, tilting your head back to smile up at him.
He hummed thoughtfully, voice still gravelly with sleep. “Ask me again after the unlimited chocolate chip cookies you now owe me for the rest of our lives.”
You laughed softly, turning fully in his arms to loop yours around his neck. “Deal,” you whispered, before kissing him.
When you finally pulled back, he was smiling a smile that made every single day of scheming, every sneaky video, every pleading child, and perfectly timed snack worth it.
Absolutely and undeniably worth it.
