Chapter 1: Chapter 1
The late-afternoon sun slanted through the blinds of Hotch’s office, striping the worn carpet and illuminating dust motes dancing in the stagnant air. The entire team was crammed in, a rare occurrence that made the space feel suddenly small.
“So, let me get this straight,” Rossi said, leaning against the doorframe with a skeptical tilt of his head. “Brittany here can… fold reality into a little ball and we can go play inside it.”
“It’s a stabilized pocket dimension,” Garcia corrected, her voice a mix of awe and pride as she stood beside their newest, and most unusual, consultant. “She showed me a teacup she keeps a whole galaxy in. It’s legit.”
Brittany, a woman with tired eyes that held impossible depths, simply nodded. “It’s a place. Empty, malleable. I use it to think. You all look like you could use a place to… not think for an hour.”
Morgan crossed his arms, his biceps straining against his sleeves. “And it’s safe? We just pop in and pop back out?”
“Safer than your driving, pretty boy,” Prentiss offered, earning a half-smile.
JJ’s practical sense surfaced. “What’s the catch?”
“No catch,” Brittany said. “It borrows your energy, your subconscious. It’ll feel real. Sometimes it borrows a little too well, so don’t be surprised if it… reflects things.”
Hotch, who had been silently observing from behind his desk, finally steepled his fingers. “The potential forensic applications alone are staggering. Recreating crime scenes without contamination…”
“Or,” Garcia interjected, bouncing on her toes, “we could use it for something that isn’t work for five minutes?”
A look passed between the team—a rare, unanimous flicker of weary agreement. The caseload had been relentless, the horrors clinging like grime. The idea of an empty space, a true blank slate, was irresistibly cathartic.
“Okay,” Hotch said, the single word a surrender. “Show us.”
Brittany didn’t gesture dramatically. She just… pulled. The air in the center of the office wavered, like heat rising off asphalt, then tore open into a silent, shimmering oval. Through it, they could see muted colors and clean lines.
One by one, they stepped through. The transition was a disorienting lurch, a sudden loss of floor-firmness replaced instantly by something new.
They stood in the concourse of an abandoned mall, vast and echoing. It was eerily pristine; no dust, no graffiti, the potted plastic ferns eternally green under the soft glow of faux-skylights. The silence was a physical presence.
Brittany emerged last, the portal sealing behind her with a soft snick. “It’s empty. It’s safe. And it listens,” she said, her voice carrying in the immense quiet. “So let off some steam. Think it, and it might just… come to life.”
The team looked around, a shared sense of bewildered liberation settling over them. The sheer possibility was overwhelming.
The sheer possibility was overwhelming. "Okay, I call dibs on the arcade!" Garcia yelled, her voice echoing as she grabbed Morgan’s hand and pulled him toward a distant, glowing corridor. Rossi wandered toward a faux bookstore, shaking his head in wonder. JJ and Prentiss headed in the opposite direction, their murmured conversation fading into the ambient hum of the climate-controlled void.
Soon, it was just Hotch and Brittany standing in the vast, empty concourse.
“It borrows from you,” she repeated, looking up at him. Her eyes were dark pools. “So, what’s the fantasy, Aaron? The one you never let yourself want. Think it. Here, it can be true.”
He stared at her. The disciplined walls in his mind, the ones he maintained every waking second, began to soften at the edges. He didn’t speak. He simply looked at her and decided.
He simply looked at her and decided.
The air around Brittany shimmered. A low hum vibrated up from the polished floor, through the soles of their shoes. Her breath hitched, not in fear, but in startled recognition. “Oh,” she whispered, a smile touching her lips. “That’s a new one.”
It started with a faint stretching sound, the subtle creak of seams under new pressure. Her height increased first, an almost imperceptible unspooling that made Hotch have to tilt his chin up just a degree to hold her gaze. The sleek fabric of her blouse tightened across her shoulders, then her bust. Buttons began to strain.
“You’re thinking it very… specifically,” she murmured, her voice a shade deeper. She arched her back as a wave of expansion rippled through her torso, her hips flaring outwards. The denim of her jeans sang a tight, threatening song. Hotch watched, utterly still, his own breath shallow. He wanted to see the containment fail.
She grew taller, wider, fuller. The swell of her ass pressed the jeans to their absolute limit, the faded fabric turning pale with tension. A seam at the side of her thigh split with a sharp pop. Brittany sighed, a sound of pure pleasure, and rolled her now-broad shoulders. Her blouse gaped between the buttons, revealing the deep cleft of her expanding cleavage. Another button gave way, pinging off a nearby planter.
Her feet swelled within her boots, the leather groaning. The laces snapped. She was outgrowing the space around her, becoming a magnificent, colossal version of herself. The tight clothes were now obscene restraints, and with a final, powerful shift of her hips, the jeans split open from waist to ankle on both sides, falling away like shed skin.
The tight clothes were now obscene restraints, and with a final, powerful shift of her hips, the jeans split open from waist to ankle on both sides, falling away like shed skin.
She didn’t stop.
A deep, tectonic groan echoed through the mall concourse as her body continued to expand, the growth accelerating. Hotch took an involuntary step back, his head tilting further and further back to keep her face in view. Her blouse shredded entirely, falling in tatters from her now-monumental frame. The smooth skin of her stomach filled his vision, a vast plain of dusky gold stretching upward. Her thighs, each thicker than his entire torso, pillars of warm, living flesh. The air grew warm and carried her scent—ozone and salt and pure, potent woman. He was shrinking in her shadow, a dizzying reversal of power. His own arousal was a sharp, demanding ache in his gut, completely divorced from his rational mind. Her growth slowed, settling into a final, breath-stopping scale.
He stood perfectly still, the polished floor cool under his shoes.
The apex of her thighs, the shadowed junction, was now directly before his eyes. The sheer, overwhelming reality of her filled his world. Heat radiated from her. “See something you like?” Her voice was a landslide, a low rumble that vibrated in his bones. He was eye-level with her cunt.
He was eye-level with her cunt, the musky heat of her overwhelming every other sense. The silence of the mall was broken only by his own ragged breath.
“What do you want?” His voice was rough, stripped of all authority, a genuine question thrown into the vast space between her thighs.
Brittany looked down, a slow, pleased smile spreading across her face. “I want you to play, too.”
A wave of pressure slammed into him, a deep, internal unfolding. It wasn’t painful; it was immense. He gasped as his shoulders widened, the fine wool of his suit jacket groaning. A seam split under one arm with a crisp tear. His shoes became agony, his feet swelling, pressing against the leather until the laces snapped. He watched his own hands, his fingers thickening, knuckles broadening.
His shirt strained across his expanding chest, buttons pinging off the tile. The growth was a relentless, full-body stretch. His thighs filled his pant legs, the fabric tightening like a second skin before the seams at his crotch and hips gave way with a series of sharp rips. He was bursting out of himself, shedding the confines of his professional skin.
He rose, and rose, his perspective shifting dizzyingly. He watched the top of Brittany’s head sink below his eyeline. The growth settled, leaving him towering over her, a foot taller, his ruined clothes hanging in tatters from his colossal new frame. The air cooled on his bare skin. He looked down at her, this goddess now staring up at him, her eyes wide with hungry approval.
Her hungry approval was a spark in the void. He focused on it, and on the deep, low hum of potential in the air. He didn’t just want to be bigger. He wanted them to be bigger. Together.
The thought was a command.
A fresh, swelling pressure began in his bones, a deep and resonant ache of expansion. He heard Brittany gasp as the same force took her. The polished floor tiles beneath their feet creaked, a network of hairline fractures spreading outward. He was growing again, taller, his shoulders broadening, the ruined scraps of his clothing falling away completely. Across from him, Brittany swelled in answer, her magnificent body ascending, her thighs thickening, the awesome weight of her breasts rising again.
As they grew, the scale of the mall shifted around them. The faux skylights drew closer. The potted ferns were now like blades of grass at their feet. The air grew warmer, thicker with the scent of their skin.
He reached for her, his now-gargantuan hand spanning the whole of her back. Her skin was fever-hot and impossibly smooth. He pulled her vast form against his, the crush of her breasts against his chest a breathtaking shock. She melted into him, a low moan vibrating through her frame into his.
He tilted his head down.
She arched up.
He pulled her into a kiss.
It was not soft. It was a collision. A claiming. His lips crushed against hers, and she opened for him with a hungry sound. Her tongue met his, a slick, hot duel of pure need. He could feel the rumble of her growth, the expansion of her ribs against his hands, even as he felt his own spine lengthen, his muscles thickening. They were a feedback loop of immense, devouring scale.
The kiss tasted like power and ozone and sweat. He bit her lower lip, and she growled into his mouth, her hands—now large enough to cradle his skull—clenching in his hair. They were giants in an empty world, and all that existed was the heat of their mouths, the slide of tongues, and the relentless, glorious pressure of becoming more.
They were giants in an empty world, and all that existed was the heat of their mouths, the slide of tongues, and the relentless, glorious pressure of becoming more. He broke the kiss, his breath a hot wind against her face. “Turn around,” he growled, the command vibrating in the new depth of his voice.
He pushed her, a guiding hand between her monumental shoulder blades. She went down onto her hands and knees without a word, the impact of her palms and knees on the tile sending a deep tremor through the foundation. The view was obscene, majestic; the full, swollen curve of her ass presented before him, a landscape of dusky skin.
He didn’t hesitate. He positioned himself behind her, his own immense erection, thick and ruddy, nudging against her soaked entrance. He pushed forward, a slow, stretching invasion that made her cry out, a sound that echoed through the vacant food court. He buried himself to the hilt in one excruciatingly slow thrust, feeling her inner muscles clench and flutter around his invading girth.
“Fuck,” he hissed, the sheer, tight heat of her overwhelming.
He began to move, a deep, rolling rhythm that started in the core of his being. Each pull was a suction, each thrust a reclaiming. The wet, slapping sounds of their joining were obscenely loud in the silent mall. As he fucked her, he fed the thought, the desire, back into the dimension. More.
It answered.
A fresh surge of power coiled up his spine. He felt his bones subtly elongate, his muscles swell with new density. Beneath him, Brittany gasped as the same expansion tore through her. Her back widened, her ass grew fuller in his hands, her internal muscles tightening impossibly further around his cock, which was itself thickening, lengthening, pushing deeper. The floor tiles beneath her hands cracked with a sound like gunshots.
They were still fucking, the pace becoming more frantic, when the others returned.
Garcia’s delighted shriek died in her throat. Morgan’s “What the hell—” dissolved into stunned silence. They stood frozen at the edge of the concourse, a clustered group of tiny figures dwarfed by the two colossal, coupling forms.
Rossi’s cigar, forgotten, dropped from his lips. JJ’s hand flew to her mouth. Prentiss just stared, her analytical mind utterly offline.
No one moved. No one spoke. The raw, primal reality of it—the sheer scale of the act, the audible wetness, the shared tremor of continuous growth—held them in a collective, breathless thrall. They were entranced by the sight.
The wet, rhythmic slap of flesh against flesh echoed like a drumbeat in the vast space. Hotch drove into her, each thrust now accompanied by the low groan of straining architecture as their bodies swelled further, their scale distorting the familiar mall around them.
“Christ,” Morgan breathed, his voice barely audible over the noise. He made no move to look away.
A fine mist of sweat glistened on the shifting mountains of their skin. Brittany cried out, a raw, guttural sound of pleasure that vibrated in the chests of the watching team. JJ felt a flush of heat spread through her own belly, a shocking, involuntary response to the primal display. Prentiss’s mouth was dry, her analytical mind silenced by the sheer animal truth of it.
Garcia’s hand, seemingly of its own volition, crept to the front of her own jeans, applying a faint, shameful pressure. Rossi adjusted his stance, his face an unreadable mask.
They grew bigger. The potted plants were now mere specks beneath Brittany’s splayed fingers. The ceiling lights drew dangerously close to Hotch’s heaving back. The rest of the team became aroused at the sight, a shared, illicit current crackling between them. No one spoke. No one needed to. The air grew thick with the scent of sex and ozone, and with their own silent, gathering want.
The air grew thick with the scent of sex and ozone, and with their own silent, gathering want. A deep, tectonic shudder rolled through the mall’s foundation as Hotch and Brittany swelled again, their scale breaching some final threshold. Hotch was now so colossal he had to hunch over, his vast back scraping the ceiling panels, which buckled and rained dust. He drove into her from this angled, dominating position, his thrusts causing the very floor to shift. "Jesus Christ, the ceiling's coming down!" Morgan yelled, grabbing Garcia and JJ, pulling them backward as a light fixture shattered nearby. They stumbled, disoriented, until Prentiss shouted, "Under her! Now!" The only stable shelter was the cavernous space beneath Brittany’s bowed form, between her massive arms and her kneeling thighs. They scrambled into that shadowed, humid alcove, the world outside reduced to the rhythmic, thunderous impacts of bodies and crumbling architecture. Here, the air was hotter, saturated with the musk of her sweat and the tang of her arousal. The sounds were magnified: the slick, wet pound of penetration, Hotch’s guttural grunts, Brittany’s choked cries of "yes, fuck, yes." They could feel the vibrations of each thrust through the floor beneath them. Rossi’s jaw was clenched, his eyes locked on the spectacle above. Garcia, pressed against Morgan’s side, felt his erection strain against his jeans. JJ’s hand, still over her mouth, slid down to her own throat, then lower. Prentiss made the first move, a deliberate, defiant unbuttoning of her pants. Her eyes met Morgan’s in the dim light. He let out a sharp breath and unfastened his belt. It was a contagion. Rossi’s rough hand slid into his own open fly. Garcia, whimpering, mimicked Prentiss. Together in the shelter of the giantess, they touched themselves, each stroke synchronized to the punishing rhythm from above.
Together in the shelter of the giantess, they touched themselves, each stroke synchronized to the punishing rhythm from above. The air was thick with the sound of their ragged breaths and the wet, rhythmic slap of flesh from the giants. Garcia’s head lolled back against Morgan’s shoulder, her whimpers lost in the seismic groans of the shifting structure.
A new, deeper tremor shook the world.
Hotch’s thrusts stuttered as a wave of expansion, more violent than before, wracked his frame. His shoulder slammed into a support pillar, shearing it clean in half. Concrete dust rained down. Brittany cried out, not in pain but in ecstasy, as her own form surged upward, her back now pressing against the buckling ceiling.
As they grew, their perspective shifted dizzyingly. The concourse floor fell away, details blurring. The cluster of their colleagues, hidden moments before, now came into sharp, shocking focus beneath the arch of Brittany’s trembling thighs. They were exposed, utterly, like insects under a microscope.
Hotch froze, buried deep inside her. His colossal head tilted down, his eyes, now the size of dinner plates, fixing on the tiny, frantic movements below. A low, grinding sound rolled from his chest. "Well, fuck," he rumbled, the words vibrating through every bone in the building. Brittany lifted her head, her gaze following his. A slow, wicked smile spread across her vast face. "Looks like we have an audience." The heat in her voice was a new kind of fire.
The heat in her voice was a new kind of fire. Hotch grinned, a feral stretch of his lips. “Better view,” he grunted, and with hands large enough to cradle her torso, he flipped her. The world lurched for Brittany, the concourse ceiling a blur before her back slammed into the fractured tile, the impact shuddering through the mall’s bones.
Dust and debris rained down. “Morgan, move!” JJ screamed. Hotch’s colossal hand swept down, not to crush, but to gather. His fingers closed around them with startling delicacy, lifting them from the crumbling floor as if plucking a clutch of eggs. They were deposited, stumbling and gasping, onto the vast, heaving plain of Brittany’s stomach, right between the mammoth slopes of her breasts.
The heat of her skin was immense, the scent of her sweat and sex overpowering. “Holy shit,” Garcia breathed, her hand instinctively resuming its frantic rhythm between her legs. Above them, Hotch positioned himself, his shadow swallowing the world. He drove back into her, sheathing himself in one brutal, breathtaking thrust.
Brittany’s back arched, a mountain range shifting, her cry a gale that whipped over the team. They clung to her sweat-slick skin as the fuck became a cataclysm. Each piston-like drive of Hotch’s hips made her entire body tremble, a seismic event they rode on her belly.
He sped up, his rhythm punishing, primordial. They were still growing. A support beam snapped like a twig. The ceiling groaned, buckling inward as Hotch’s shoulders pressed against it, as the incredible swell of Brittany’s hips cracked the foundational tiles. Plaster and metal screeched in protest, shoved outward by their expanding forms. The mall was a dying shell, and they were its bursting core.
Rossi, kneeling between her breasts, never stopped touching himself, his eyes glued to where their bodies joined. “Fucking monsters,” he panted, not in fear, but in awe.